Razor roulette

I am afraid of you,
but you hand me the razor

remove the clipper guard
so I can get closer
to the skin.

You tell me to shave
every last inch.

Do you know how many men
would kill
for your hairline?

Fly to Turkey for it?

Shaving your head,
I hold a blade to your skull—
not your heart.

I’ll tell you exactly
where I’m cutting.

But it’s not an art—
just removing everything

The only mistake I can make
is hurting you.

I find a rhythm with the buzzer,
moving up
down
back
and forth.

I skin like a potato

Grate
like parmesan.

Dark hair circles the drain,
sprinkles the t-shirt
I’m wearing—
yours.

Feels like sculpting now,
taking away
the excess.

You turn
I see your neck tattoo
“your head has a nice shape,”
I say.

“it was made
for this.”

You point out the dent,
I touch it.
We laugh
and make up stories.
“Who dropped you?”

Do you know I’m falling now?
like a baby.

We are two
against the inevitability
of growth.

Still, I don’t trust you
to slow down.

Still, I don’t trust
my own hand—

it’s trembling.

My other palm
touches your back

for stability—
that’s all I swear.

So muscly,
but hot as a stove.

Too close, too much.

Just a rookie barber.

This is new,
and I’m terrified.

I stand behind you,
and inspect my work.

We both stare in the mirror

Your green eyes
on yourself.

mine on you.

I hold the blade,
but you have one too.

Bottled water 

I let my mind go
where it wants to go,
my legs go
where they want to go.

my eyes drift
hoping for a sip of the divine,
birds hover like unsung heroes,
indifferent to my plea.

nature doesn't give a shit about what I want
what I need
to look at, listen to, 
is already within.

The point is to live more, 
feel more.
take in
as much as you can.

heart pounds,
lungs scream,
head down,
eyes closed.

It’s not surrender to let the pain inside.

[insert: welcome doormat]
not as you, but a thing you own

suffering is a fool's choice
and a martyr's errand
but I choose 
to push through

guided by a voice 
that whispers,
you have more 
to give.

I run, I run
I run until my mind goes blank.
Until the mask falls,
the fog lifts, and I’m back.

Into the world
where it’s strange, 
sharp,
and more pure than before.
 

they say, 
they say,
you live in a gap between where you are,
and where you want to be.

I straddle between two shores
of despair and desire

until my jeans rip,
and my ass breaks wind and
my groin tears into meat
and my legs split in two

like a broken barbie doll
with a pulse
and then... and then... 
I learn what I'm made of

a tug of war in the muscle

coming up for air,
the answer might be different,
but now I'm different. 

a l l

s t r e t c h e d

o u t

not s t r e t c h e d thin

the truth was a mirage
until I turned to face it.

here,
here
I can breathe again.

Dry spell

I’ve been in the business
of loss training
for a while now
the greatest loser ever says,
“yeah dude” and “yeah man”
fist to fist

Is this fucked up—
reading texts in archive jail
from another arrest
when I should read the rest of Shelia Heti,
news about the earthquake.
something productive, earth-shatteringly
intelligent?

my toes are bleeding and I need a bandaid

what is the point of being so strong
when it just leaves me alone?

extricated feelings
like forcing a shit
black avocados on the street corner—
something only a dog would lick

hungry for more than scraps

my girlfriend messages me, “are you keen?”
about the guy from the pub last night
and I’m flattered as much as
an amnesiac could be

I google with blind hope
and disappointment seeps out
like the inflatable man outside a car dealership—
deflated after hours

can’t tell if I’m on the brink of crying or falling asleep
maybe both