To have a crush on someone.

The word Crush makes me think of

powdered pigments

being ground together with a

metal spoon

in the belly of a

wooden

bowl.

I sense the softness of the crush

the silky touch of lust

ground finely.

Applies like blush to cheeks and eyes

exhibits love's

true colors.

All that to say,

I don't wear makeup.

Nyuk nyuk.

Everyone thinks, "Oh, that Brit is so brilliant. I'll bet everything she writes is a winner. Gosh. She's so talented. I should call her and buy her a drink. Who knows. She's in a lonely vulnerable place right now. Maybe..."

Well, you're right about that last part,

but they're not all winners.

For your consideration,

the Trash Bin collection:

Roses are red

Violence is blue

I look like a monkey

and smell like one too.

Roses are red

Petals are wilty

I miss having love

something something-ilty.

Roses are red

Herbert is brown

I do not recall

where I was going with this.

So let's say my love poetry is a whale, right?

And it's washed up on some cruddy beach.

And it ain't dead exactly,

or even dying,

It's just sorta

miserable

and there's two ways to get it back, see

two ways

I can either find love,

the tide will rise

and back in that beast will go.

Or.

OR

I could blow the thing to smithereens

and send it back to the greats

in smelly, heavy pieces.

I don't reckon it's for me to decide,

but I hope Someone does.

I was trying to write a dirty joke

about being like a Forever stamp

Something about licking me and

Sticking me

On the corner of your package

But then I started thinking about ma(il/le)

and how I never

Get any.

Professional sports are rigged.

Feel free to suck your own poetry

out of that.

My son has achieved lift.

He bends down,

coils himself tightly

then

to the tune of a nice

Ta-Da,

SPRINGS up,

leaving land,

for like,

half a second.

He's a better dancer these days, too.

Spins. Jumps. Gestures.

Shakes. Rattles. Rolls.

He's amazing.

It's like watching

the earth be born again

each day.

I Greatly enjoy

details.

Creases, upturns,

times and

placements,

the tastes produced by certain

pigments. 

The Minute Taker tied to smell

how well she keeps

her notes.

It's the details in the reef we struck

that keeps our vessel bound.

It's the details of the voyage past

that runs my stupid heart

aground.

Falling in and out of love

has felt like learning

Alphabets

(Love) I knew you forwards

(Loss) I learned you backwards

Eventually, I'll know it all so well

that I can skip the sing-song

bullshit.

Yesterday, I took my last potty break as a person who does not often lock the door.

Today, Herb figured out the handle,

let himself in,

and told me to put my pants on.

Hide your shits. Hide your wipes.

Cause they bustin everybody out here.

There are ten pounds of sweaty head

cutting off the circulation in my

arm.

My fingers feel like popsicles.

My arm feels like wet, packed sand.

The impact point feels spicy, like

every bit of feeling bit some seeds as they were

leaving.

Conversational Template for the Posturing Man

In (x year), I was doing (brag job), and I was the best there ever was. And I was doing so well, (nameless rival) didn't like it. He tried (vague ploy), but I bested him by (incredibly detailed, comic book style tactic).

And he never messed with me again.

And the women? Shoot.

I was dating (beautiful woman) at the time,

and her sister had the hots for me. Hell, so did her friends. And not that I couldn't have had any one of them, you know. Anyhow, (beautiful woman) start naggin about this and naggin about that. So I say (witty comment) and that shut her right up. I'm telling you, those times were golden.

I've got two words for you,

two words that're gonna transform your life

transform your kid's lives

transform the way you hand-feed bears

You ready?

Here it is...

Chipotle

Tuna.

Say bye-bye pallid look of starvation

and hello red smear of spicy fish paste!

You want protein, right?

Who doesn't.

You carry around eggs and a skillet in your pocket?

I don't.

Chipotle

Tuna

(chipotle tuna)

My naked son looks like a mob boss.

Broad chest and shoulders

and pasta belly. 

He is fresh from the bath

and demands respect 

as we pat dry

his mob boss 

tushy.

I witnessed a young woman walk into a bathroom stall

with 80% of a chicken biscuit.

After flushing, she emerged

with about 30% left.

She finished her biscuit and left with

dry hands.

Never

in my life

have I been so

carefree.

It's been a nothing day.

The same cartoons.

The same three foods.

The same preference for tea,

not juice.

And my heart is full of love, I think.

Today, at least.

N'that's okay.

Sports fanatics ruin sports,

plain and simple. 

Their blind loyalty,

like children running full speed into that 3/4 platform,

'cept this ain't Harry Potter

and they're only hurting themselves,

their unquestioning devotion runs up

parking, ticket prices, concessions

and often (if not always)

their teams win

nothing, nada, zip

and it's ruining the mood for us

casual observers.

"Well you're not talking about my team

cause we've won x amount of championships

in the last x years"

You're right; I'm not talking to you.

I'm not used to talking to fans of winning teams

at all.

Now then,

69 is a beautiful number.

Like koi fish circling a pond.

I enjoy the uppercase K.

Lowercase j is pleasant too.

Orange is my favorite pushy color. 

I love the smell of recent paint;

it gives me hope

I might move on

a new home with that

white wall smell

6-9 minutes from a school

my Herbert Orange filling the halls

with Laughter Laughter Laughter...

jK! 

like That'll ever happen 🙄

The anger is a four letter word

dissolving in a bowl of

sweet milk.

I suck better times through it.

Pretend it is made

from castle sand

swallow that

then

start again.

I dreamed I was kissing him again

and I couldn't even taste

the party.

My son has a belly full

of raisins, pickles

and beans.

And he is as happy as

one not long for

poopsplosion

can be.

Antidepressants, he says.

He doesn't enjoy things

anymore.

So when he goes out

and he eats what he wants

and drinks where he likes

with people he prefers,

he means it doesn't feel as good to him

to ditch us

as it used to.

Today is my mother's birthday

and there may never be a better way

to show how much I love her

than to continue fighting this good, dumb fight.

Than to keep on living.

Cause that's what love does.

My son is inconsolable.

Wrought with grief.

Because I, again,

susceptible and selfish,

am attempting to potty

without him.

And I have died.

I have gone for milk

ne'er to return.

I have been swallowed by the Peepees monster

for the dozenth time

this week.

And I can't go when he's crying

so I have to keep going.

And it starts

all over

again.

Your voice has its own office inside my heart.

There are windows lining bright white walls

and tire swings in every corner

and oscillating fans in case

you want to talk

about your father.

What I want sometimes

resembles marbles

rinsed inside a

wooden bowl

I mean to say I want the weight

of many perfect wet curved things

mostly, 

I want to be the bowl

made lovely by the things I

hold

you know that after-rain sensation?

that gravel grind and gritty smoosh?

what I want resembles 

fresh concrete

and your finger

teasing 

change.

Loving YOU

feels like being

an

understudy

to the greatest character ever

written

In a play no one

saw

cos the theater burned down

and when it burned down

it killed Everyone

Inside.

Still... 

I know my lines.

The blocking and nonverbal

cues.

"just in case", I

tell myself.

And tell myself and tell

myself.

I've never been able to swallow pills.

30 years of "Have you tried...?"

taste as bitter as 

chewed up Midol.

Yes, Dr. Friend

I have tried your thing.

No, Dr. Friend

I don't Enjoy suffering.

I mostly hope that Herbert gets

my ears and eyes and know-how.

But he can have his father's throat.

Oh please, please have

his throat.

You are an egg, lovingly named,

given to the

High School flunkies.

We are the flunkies, Eggbert.

And I am very glad to shelter you

from counter tops and

gravity,

but these damn sniffles and stomach bugs,

and damn fevers, and aches and

pains,

I don't know what more to do

than to hide from you.

Yesterday, my right heel felt like a prisoner

scaling a yard wall to freedom,

and the searing pain was the prison guard

opting not to end it quickly,

but instead, scale the same wall

and peel the inmate off of it.

Today, my heel sits in its cage.

Face and fingertips removed.

Raw and reminding that

walking

is a bad idea.

My body is a wonderland!

And by wonderland,

I mean lumpy mattress

stuffed with mistrust for

the bank.

He'd prefer it if I loved him less,

or better yet,

not at all.

It's too much trouble

to be loved.

I guess he means my love looks like

a child

reaching

to be held,

and his love looks like

Sorry, Bud

I'll Make It Up

Next Christmas.

He doesn't appear to be taking this seriously.

He's chewing wads of gum (clue 1)

and sitting far away (clue 2)

so's not to stir the air around

the hole he pours his gas into.

Aye, but my sniffer's keen!

Pickles, ramen, cool mint,

beer

and beer

and beer

and bunny ears

around each and ev'ry

"love you".

I am told that I can appear cold, stoic, and heartless.

Like I don't have any feelings.

This is absurd.

As a regular eater of my feelings,

I can tell you

that I always run out of food

first.

I never feel more alive,

more capable,

more badass,

than when I start paying bills.

That first Submit feels like

a greased up pig

being pushed through a too-small fence.

But every Submit after that gets easier and easier.

Pleasurable even.

By the time I shove the last pig through

I find myself reluctant to stop, I find myself

tempted to slather up the next nearest

living thing.

But I don't. The money is spent.

And all that's ever left is 

a greasy,

gaping hole.

Two women next to me at the bar are making awful guttural noises (words?). Abrasive. Unyielding. And yet, they appear to be in love. They appear to be cut from the same steel wool cloth.

So I'm the one with the problem, see.

Alone, sober, and judging.

I'm the uninvited guest at this weird,

squawky party.

I am out of love and everyone knows it.

And if they don't know,

I'm sure these two Air Raid Sirens will tell'um.