teeth

i gotta tell you, you better watch out for this kid.
he don't grin with his eyes, he grins with his teeth,
cause he's a real sonofabitch, when he laughs
you might think he's laughing with you,
big guffaws straight from his chest, but
he's never laughing with you. when you weep,
even when you smile when you weep,
it piques his curiosity. he stares at you like
a black cat and he flicks his tail and
his slit eyes blink, blink. he never goes over.
he stands nearby. he never offers you comfort.
he licks his lips and runs his tongue over
the edges of his teeth. he looks non-threatening
because his eyes can get real big, but
when he gets vulnerable it's bad.
he eats people. he takes their skin to hide behind.

I Am In Here

Two instruments: piano and saxophone.
"Truth is, I could use some help."
The saxophone never sounds like a saxophone,
more like a violin. Sawing, moving in runs.
"The worst part was how I kept losing time."
The young professor flicks his hand to the high
end of the keys, a quick, sharp needle-prick.
In one repetition he errs. No one notices.
"The bathtub had an inch of standing
water in it, rusty-looking, moving around my feet."
Now the saxophone starts emitting feedback tones.
"I went through a lot of shit when I was young,
and it's given me a really positive outlook on life."
The young professor's hands move as if stuck
outside a car window, running over a current of air.
"No, it's great. I just never knew what I was missing out on."
There's metal on the piano strings.
"The whole other-people thing."
Cymbals. Cymbals.
"I would wake up in these strange places. In a chair.
Slumped against the wall. In the shower, with the water running. "
The saxophone twangs. Abruptly, things come to a stop.
"I could have done it if I'd just been able to concentrate."
The bend in the saxophone sounds like whale song.
"You never realize how much safety means until you
stop being able to take it for granted."
The piano draws deep and tolls, like out-of-tune church bells
on a bleak Christmas morning, slandered by fog.

young restless

eventually i (switzerland) escaped
from the put-upon tyranny, the single
handedness (me and my sunflower) that
my grounded harping-raft survived,
bravely and with negligible injury.
i wandered instead outside, crossing
the borders of china, africa (stepping
over the kangaroos) and i tugged on my
hat, in the 60 degree weather, pulling
sun from the templed sky. i strolled.
languidly, down the hill, trailed by
a squab, or a squabber, depending on
the alcoholic's mood. the pipsqueak
ran ahead. she rushed like something
unstable. a 40-pound landslide. me,
i sat under the single lightbulb and
took his questions, tugging faintly
at my cuffs. later, on the hammock,
they finally converged, like two waves,
shrieking and giggling in synchrony.
i pushed them, languidly, down and up.
i pulled on my hat and my band t-shirt.
what would i look like now, i wonder?

Tyler Clementi

Today I walked with a hundred other people down to
the war memorial. When I gave the microphone back
to Pamela, my heart was beating really fast. I have
to remember to be thankful for that.

I tried to think of a title for this and couldn't

The brown-haired boy flipped the pages of his book, a book he usually enjoyed but one that couldn't amuse him at a quarter past one in the morning. Hearing a pause in the background noise of words and intermittent laughter, he rose from his chair and walked over to his friend, who was much taller and blond. "Can I have my computer back now?" the boy asked, holding out his hand.
"What?" the taller one said, his forehead wrinkling. "No, I'm not done reading quotes yet."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but I want my computer back. Just use yours."
"What? I'm not going all the way up to my room," the taller boy said, as if the idea were preposterous.
"It's one floor up. Can I have my computer back now?" The brown-haired boy took hold of his computer, but his friend would not relinquish it, tugging back forcefully.
"I told you, I'm not done reading quotes. If you want a computer, you can go get mine." He held up his room key.
The boy released his computer and stepped back, an expression of surprise on his face. It wasn't at all calculated, not like the manipulative guilt trips he occasionally imagined himself orchestrating in other situations. He was, quite honestly, stunned.
"Seriously?" he muttered, retreating back to his corner of the room. Behind him, he could hear his other friends also questioning the blond, but still he would not relinquish the computer.
The boy decided to plug in to his iPod, hoping the music would help. And it did, a little. It dulled the words that the blond was reading off in the background, the words that he'd heard before and that meant nothing to him. He also played Solitaire on the iPod, sometimes placing his hand on his throat in an attempt to suppress his coughs. However, when he had played so much Solitaire that he actually won a game, he knew that this had been going on for too long.
Eventually, the blond told the boy he could have his computer back. The boy was usually civil, even amiable regarding such disagreements, but his friend's conduct had surprised him so much that he couldn't let go of it.
So the two of them fought, for a minute or two, and with no raised voices. The friend's argument was so alien to the boy, so robotic, nonsensical in his world, that he was forced to leave without making progress, so unfathomable were his friend's actions (and rationale). Walking out of the room and into the hall, he received hugs from two of his other friends, then turned and went downstairs. On his way, he couldn't help but wonder, 'Is my friend really that self-important? Or is this just another part of accepting that I'm never going to find someone else like me?' The boy pulled his hood up as he stepped outside, but by that point the rain had finally stopped falling.