i dream about small, pale things.

small things which eat my tongue,

pale things which turn my fingers into poorly handled knives.

i hope jesus loves me.

i laugh at inappropriate things:

gimme a good dead baby joke

(you can't empty a truck full of bowling balls with a pitchfork),

a too-soon 9-11 one

(the last thing through their minds was an airplane),

and i'm rolling. hahaha. really, really funny.

give me a mumbai terrorism joke, it's not as funny:

two indians walk into a bar, neither one leaves alive;

a muslim asks a girl child for directions to paradise

but before she can answer

he straps a bomb onto her and calls her “map.”

didn't they know jesus loved them?

i told (yet another) a philippina she was beautiful

even though her braces carried traces of an afternoon meal

and her hair was tortured into a bun only monotheists could love.

she said she was sinful and wasn't beautiful.

i tried to tell her she was beautiful because she was sinful.

doesn't she know jesus loves her?

i stumble a lot when i talk.

i don't stutter, i don't lisp, i just stumble.

i feel a boulder of rock-solid hatred

suspended precariously over my left shoulder.

i don't want to start the boulder's inexorable roll,

because once it starts i can hate everyone.

everyone.

i know i can hold that boulder up,

and i know no one can stand withstand it.

so i stumble with my words. and i suffer.

jesus loves me. even me.

i wish i had saved my ring.

yeah, my wedding ring. well, my used-to-be-wedded ring.

i haven't worn a watch since star wars was in the theater;

i didn't have a class ring,

i don't wear necklaces or new shirts.

i keep my memories safe in pictures

and slyly concocted journal entries.

i wish i had something more concrete,

like that slim band of cheap gold that reminded me

i was loved by something real.

shouldn't jesus love me?

perhaps my favorite memory

is of an orphaned squirrel.

that poor, fluffy, doomed, rodent.

or maybe the baby rabbit, also orphaned.

either way, they both died.

heartbreak? starvation? thirst? fear?

i just remember holding them (separately)

cautiously, tenuously, fearfully.

i remember jesus forgot them,

and i remember knowing jesus forgot me too.

i went into the desert and i saw stars,

so drastically different from the ones

i saw when i held her hand.

now i remember i didn't care 

about the sky,

the stars,

jesus,

when i was with her.

and so i was healed.

2nd stupid poem in as many months

when i answered the doorbell,

i found myself face to face with mustafa,

the maintenance guy who scrounges up

extra cash by selling bottled water.

i have a good relationship with him,

but didn't have any cash on me,

so i ordered two bottles on credit.

he peered into my apartment and asked if i was moving out.

i told him there are more things inside my apartment than when i moved in.

mustafa wouldn't deliver the water until i paid him.  upfront.  and in cash.

a pigeon family has roosted on my balcony.

they nest behind an old bicycle and laundry rack.

the chicks start squalling at six in the morning,

the mother starts calling at seven.

i storm onto the porch, shake the bicycle and the rack

in an effort to get some peace and quiet.

the chicks stop making noise but can't fly away,

unlike the mother, who wings away in fear and rage.

in the later hours of the morning i feel terrible

and throw pieces of bread to them to make up for my sins.

the dance continues.

i told the taxi driver to take me someplace to eat.

where? he asked.

i don't know. someplace good.

you like american?

no, i don't. take me to where you eat.

it's far, sir.

it's ok.

he took me to the outskirts of town,

where the buildings melt into the dunes

and streetlights are merely an afterthought.

a concrete block struggled up against the horizon,

industrial fans whirled like falling angels in gash-like windows.

two callow lights glimmered in the blighted night.

here is where i eat.

oh.

i expected him to take me to a place that had running water.

there is a simplicity to cooking rice i never understood:

put your finger into a pot, pour rice in until it's even with your cuticle.

place your finger on top of the rice and add water

until the water is level with the first knuckle of your finger.

boil. perfect rice, every time.

i asked her if she had a simple recipe like that for everything.

she smiled and said “only for food.”

food was the only thing i was asking about.

if i knew i only had twenty four hours to live

i would shoot someone in the leg, just to see what it felt like.

i would pet a dog, hug my sister, feed someone,

and tell that one girl i still love her.