I Love You Like You Love Anyone Else

I never knew what I wanted,
beyond feeling relaxed,
but even that seemed at odds
with what nature desired for me.

Nature desired for me
a lot of silence
before causing my head
to swell uncontrollably.

“I love you, I love you,
I love you like you love anyone else,”
was my constant refrain.

My head remained so large
for such a long time,
so big that I constantly
woke to check that it was true.

But it wasn’t.

In that moment, I understood
that the truth was everywhere
and to see it required
no effort whatsoever.

I saw that the truth was true,
and could do nothing to help it.

“I don’t like this feeling
of simple truths,” I told
my mirror when he and I
met for breakfast yesterday,

“it’s not really my thing.”

“The feeling I’ve got now,
well, that’s my feeling,”
I told him. “It’s a true feeling
of feelings of correct ideas

“of true feelings
in a true world
that has feelings of
truth in the world.”

“Your mother told us that you wanted
to be a singer,” my mirror said.
“And a singer must always know
the true feeling of feelings.”

I raised my head in an attempt
to be kind and replied,

“I think I’ll have
a better time
with true feelings
if I am by myself.”

“But listen,
(and this is what it was)
it was that I didn’t know,
I didn’t know the feeling,”

“It felt like feeling
like everything was possible.
Like some things were
about to sort of happen.”

And some things did.

I made a move.

I Love You Like You Love Anyone Else

We were very much in love with the idea of being in a place that was really different from the rest

When we died
we went to Florida
and created a heaven
from orange peels
and costumes
discarded from Disney World.

In the off season,
we haunted Miami Beach,
ghosts among ghosts,
moldy parking garages
and half-flooded
apartment complexes.

In the summer,
you could drive down
the South Beach strip,
past the bodegas and dive bars, and discover
a world of color
and sex
and slow decay.

In the winter,
we pretended it snowed.

We were the weirdest group
we had ever seen.

We were like
a second family.


When we died in 2003,
the world was a different place. The Internet
was for the young.

We lived by codes
made up in Stanford
dorm rooms
over pizza and cheap beer.

We would go online.

We’d join a chat room.

We’d talk about the weather.

We’d talk about movies,
and our jobs,
and our jobs,
and our jobs.

Then we would get drunk
and pretend to fly
around the world.

The first place we went
was to the San Francisco
Museum of Modern Art,

then we flew
across the country
to Washington D.C.,
to the National Endowment
for the Arts.

For a while we were in Italy,
and for a while we were in Berlin.

It was really intense
because we couldn’t see anything,
just the other ghosts
trying to use Skype
in an Internet cafe.

One day, out of nowhere,
we were on Google Earth
and we saw a plane
sitting abandoned
in a secluded field.

We grew so excited
because we planned
on making that plane
our house.

We had never lived
in a plane, only apartments
with snoring dogs
and sniggering rats,
only apartments
in real bad shape,
half-flooded with seawater,
yet somehow still
worth a million dollars.

We were very much in love with the idea of being in a place that was really different from the rest

Then One Foggy Christmas Eve

We were singing
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
at church
instead of
Amazing Grace
and something
didn’t seem
quite right;
there was no verve,
no gumption,
no gratification
for caroling
to the heavens.
It didn’t seem
like the right
little ritual
for the time.

And this was,
at bottom,
the very reason
I wanted
to sing
my memoirs
at a Christmas Eve

I needed
to sing
these truths:
that we must love each other,
that happiness isn’t constant,
that the brain needs melody,
and that life is like a gingerbread house:
quite messy
and prone to collapse
just when you think
you’ve got it all
put together nicely
(but pretty sweet
from start to finish).

The people
in my memoir song
sound different
than they do
in real life.

When my mother sings,
“Would you like
to be
a little elf?”
she sounds like Emmy Lou Harris
and I recall my mother,
wide-eyed and wrinkle-free,
with hair halfway down her back;
when her voice drifts down
to sing,
“Or would you like
to be
buried under snow?”
you must recall
that’s how
I’ve written
her parts
of the song.

When my family comes
to my song’s premiere
no one asks
what the song is for.
They only ask
why they all
sound different
from how they sound
in real life.

After the premiere,
we all go out
to eat fried rice
and steamed veggies.

We wait hours
for supper
to arrive.
We don’t talk
about much,
but we do hum
along to some
jolly Christmas tunes
the air
around us.

Then One Foggy Christmas Eve

Dazzling Tales of Broken Truths Vol. I

In middle-age
I decided
to get myself
a narrator
and take up
the life
of a protagonist.

Critics found
themselves having
a few problems
with this approach:

a) In the book, the narrator early describes the protagonist, Mr. X, as “…the only man in his class in school who is unlikely to wield a pitchfork.” But then, later on in the story, Mr. X is described as “…the only man in the county who could run the family dairy, manage the town’s small hotel, maintain several properties, is the seventh son of a seventh son, and spends his time on learning books as a hobby.”

In other words,
they found
the narrator

They went on
at some length
with their critique:

b) In the book, the protagonist, Mr. X, describes himself as “…the most intelligent man in the world, with three degrees in mathematics from a four-year university.” But the narrator, who is Mr. X’s roommate, reports, “There are two things I can’t write about in this story…my name and the names of the people I worked with and their jobs.”

Mr. X (punctuation marks removed, emphasis on “him”) says one of his supervisors writes in an annual review:

“This guy is a fucking genius! He’s got two degrees, he’s got a doctorate, and you’ll never see him in a story book. Give him all the raises!”

c) In the book, Mr. X, says “I’ll work for anybody you want”. The narrator describes Mr. X as someone:

“…who loves work. He’d rather sit in his office, alone, and wait for the sun to come up and his job to end than spend time for any reason with any woman or child he co-created.”

The critics
seemed unsatisfied
with my fictions
and the fictions
of those
around me:

d) In the book, the protagonist, Mr. X, talks to Ms. M, his co-worker. “I’m always a good liar, especially when I tell the truth, and no matter what happens, I always get away with whatever needs gotten.” The narrator describes Ms. M. as “…a woman who is constantly telling lies, and never even tries to avoid them.”

e) In the book, Mr. X, says “I never get tired of lying about anything. I can just sit down and lie about anything. It’s something I’m born for. It’s my work.” Later, in the book, even the narrator says “I can’t talk without lying, because everyone knows I lie. It’s my work.”

f) In the book, toward the end, we are led to believe that the narrator is Mr. X, the protagonist. This is perhaps the most distasteful sequence of the entire story.

Dazzling Tales of Broken Truths Vol. I

Untitled No. LXI

When I was a child,
my father told me
I had a miscreant’s mouth
and a ne’er do well’s nose.

In the nights then,
my fingers bled feathers
and my brothers
bit my ears.

My sisters‬ and I
were ne’er to start,
yet we shared‬ the same father
so cooked from his fire.

Our mother‬ desired,
so delighted,
to have us‬ become
real‪ mother‪s, too.

Though she‬ was not‪ much‪
for mother‪-teaching‪ us,
so I left the family to grow
a ne’er boy of my own…

‪I aged and fell away
and imitated a‪ mother‪
despite the feathers
that fell from me.‬

‪My brothers aged,
more‪ interested
in‪ beautiful‪ women‪
obscured behind‪‪ counters.‬

‪I was‬ taken in by‪ a thing
pretending, and made lost‪
from‪ the‪ world
because‪ of‪‪ beauty.‬

‪My sisters‬
became bakers
and shopkeepers
and I turned towards them.‬

‪‪I‪ entered‪ their‪ shop‪,‬
and opened boxes
while their customers‪
stood by, impatient.‬

‪Inside the boxes
I‪ beheld their treats;
treats just like
little boxes.

‪I stared up
at my sisters,
box of boxes in hand;
ne’er such expression‪s.‬

‪They were quick
to‪ understand
and from the counter,
handed‪ me‪ a‪n empty box.‬

‪At last, they‪ pointed‪ back
to our shared pasts‬
and ne’er once asked
for explanations.

Untitled No. LXI

Wherever You Went, There You Were

I wanted to kiss you until the stars blinked out into cold masses of dust and I wanted the heat between us to ignite a new universe filled with new stars named after candy and breakfast cereals.

And I wanted you in my bed, curled under my arm, whispering to me secret names for god and sex and I wanted to see you naked in the flickering candlelight, blankets bunched down at your ankles, sheen of sweat upon your thighs.

It’s a good thing we don’t have to worry about a future together.

It’s a good thing it won’t ever be our turn to suffer through such loss, yes what a good great thing we will never come to that.

Yet I can’t help but wonder what happened.
Where did you go?
In which wild country did you live?

How do we find the future if we don’t understand the consequences of our actions?
Are we human beings without?
That is, can we even be human without what if?

How do we feed? Who will take care of us in the future? Who will look after that which we have done and not done, kissed and not kissed, loved and not loved?

Will you remember me in your future?
Will you remember I told you?
Will you remember forever?

Why do I wonder?

My husband was like me. He lived a life filled with routine and convenience followed by frustration and depression, and while he had a respectable career in corporate America, he was not satisfied.

The only passion he chose to follow was raising our children. He loved them dearly. He wanted to keep them happy in a world filled with so much despair and misery.

He wanted them to have a future filled with light and love and love and life.

He wanted them to have a forever.

I think too often on forevers.

I think eternity is such a long, long time and I think I meant it when I said, “forever.”

I think I really meant it that time.

Wherever You Went, There You Were

Fountainverse: Friday, 10/11 Schedule







Host : James Benger

Riverfront Readings Features: Huascar Medina (Poet Laureate of KS), Lindsey Weishar, and Jermaine Thompson

Suspect Press Features: Eliza Beth Whittington and Brice Maiurro.



Host: Sharon Eiker

Features: Phillip Emanuel Frost Bounds and Waco Porter

Fountainverse: Friday, 10/11 Schedule