walked a few miles

so last night i walked a few miles

i told him we probably knew each other 30 or 40 years ago before i souls became adjusted to their new lives.
our old lives seem to line up perfectly.
there is something about the outfits he wears that catches my eye - matches my fly.

but he's far.
there are moons between us.
i often catch the moon before he does, giving him a heads up of it's light.
i've sat in my window sill for hours hoping he'd get the right light for his art.

i reach into my pockets past the dryer lint and pull out my last few compliments to give him.
he pays me back with pictures of beauty taken on junk piles.

one day - when the distance between us aren't so great - we will be.
we've learned to love differently.

there has to be a story of our ancestors we have yet to hear.
a story about a man with a chalk rock creating immortal life with his heart.
a story about a man with a muse writing her into forever.

the story we have yet to hear.

we build a bridge to bring the moon closer.
and we walk.

i want to kidnap him like poets do.
there are road sides with no footprints.
there are photographs that have not been taken and poems that have not been written.

so we walk a few miles and meet in the middle:

26 W Adams St
Crossville, TN

they sell hot wings and lemonade.
that's the middle.

and we'll pull over on the side of the road.
i'll start telling you why the sky sometimes turns red...
and you'll take the picture.


and the distance will no longer exist.

so last night i walked a few miles.

dropped my keys on the table

so last night i dropped my keys on the table by the door. since locking the doors on the 1979 chrysler new yorker, i anticipated dropping my backpack off in my room, and occupying the bathroom for a few seconds, freeing the mcdonald's sweet tea from within. (side note: i think i just made peeing sound kinda intriguing)

i washed my hands and played the staring game with myself, wishing the reflection was a real twin so i could hit the shit out of him for not asking him to sleep in my bed instead of his own.
or at least sit on it for hours while we play tag around the borders - fucking up the fitted sheets while doing everything but fucking.

fucking's not a thought right now.
i like him to much to fuck him this early.
(side note: this is one of those things that makes a guy realize he's growing)

i run the shower water and gargle with the scope.
between swishes from cheek to cheek i find new hopes.

i want to be home with him when the electricity decides to take a turn for the worst
so i can feed him cheesecake and yogurt with the lights out, laughing because i got some on his forehead.

i want to put a blank disc into the slot and fill it with the 18 songs that remind me of him.

i thought about grabbing my toothbrush and running to my car.
crank it up and pray i have enough gas to get me to that avenue of trees I know exist on the other side of silence.
hoping he placed his phone by his ear so he'd feel it vibrate when i texted.

tell him about the bench i found one night while walking off a creative high.
tell him to mapquest the spot and meet me there.

he'd say: 'why should i?'

i'd say: 'because i was standing in my closet and couldn't think of anything i'd rather be doing than playing a game of spades with the cards up with you at 4:45am - waiting to wake the sun up to let him know it's monday and he has work to do.'

he'd say: 'but i'm half sleep. i wouldn't be any fun.'

i'd say: 'if i was to tell you just how much i need you, would you come tonight?'

he'd say: 'yes.'

and i'd do that.

read something new to him.

so last night i read something new to him on top of a commercial white comforter and king size pillows.

there's something comforting about warm eyes staring at you when the world outside is frigid.

we put a lock on the door and stripped down to our souls hoping they'd be enough.
we crack the window to let gusts of air in, hoping the goose down white comforter would be enough - and it was.

i closed my eyes and wished for a brick accent wall while he talked about the dog we'd one day get and the size of the tv we'd have to put in the living room for when guest came over.

i opened my eyes.
and although the accent wall had not come in with the dropping temperature, i was still in love with what remained.

his legs found mine under the comforter.
and they became pretzel dough, attempting to bake int he heat our bodies created.

"read me something."

"read you what? wanna hear my favorite nikki giovanni poem?"

"no. i want to hear something you wrote."

i grabbed the smallest moleskin journal from the bedside bookshelf without once removing my legs from his.

and i began.

in poetry i explained to him the need for us to love one another.
i told him about the comfort americans find in men holding guns but not holding hands.
he nodded his head, but kept his eyes on the hairs of his folded arms resting under his chin.
i told him: "i sometimes cannot take the distance so i walk a few miles to lessen it."

he smiled.

and i kept reading.

between the smiles i could feel his pulse against my calves.
between the blinks i could feel his fingertips glide the curves of my ears.

between the beginning of the poem and the end i could feel our souls creating curves and lumpy parts in the mattress.

i folded the book and stood.

i told him:

let us remove the flannel sheets from the bed and replace them with linen.
let us throw out the king and replace it with a twin.
now we have no other option than to sleep close and warm through winter...
but for autumn let us trick off without titles while the leaves act as pillows.

i stood in the window against the coldness
and read him my favorite nikki giovanni...
in a whisper.

wrote my name on his neck.

so last night i wrote my name on his neck.

he stood in the kitchen hanging on the open refrigerator door, staring at me sitting on the counter beside the old bananas and the apples with soft spots, attempting to read my mind after i refused to answer his question: what do you want for dinner?

i couldn't think.
my mind had been cluttered all day with the thought of him leaving and the thought of my hard ass bed being permanently messy or permanently made because i refused to make it up or sleep under the covers...depending on how he left it.
i couldn't think.

i really didn't give a shit about what we ate.
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and skim milk would serve the purpose.

we hadn't yet gotten out tattoos.
not matching, just at the same time.

he closed the refrigerator and sighed.
he had read my mind.
and although he didn't want to say it, his leaving would be a blow to him.

i grabbed a permanent marker and started scribbling illegible letters on apples and sad faces on bananas, knowing he wouldn't take either of the, with him as a reminder, but we'd remember this years from now, joking, saying things like:

remember that time when...

and we'd laugh.

but nothing was funny.

he stood between my legs - his back to my belly button, and we stared at an empty wall we thought we'd occupy before fall with pictures of music.

i wrote my name on his neck.
i permanently marked him.

i wanted the people who stayed at a distance to know i was once there.
he did not belong to me, but i needed to claim something at the moment, and his neck was present.

before the sky split open he's need to shower and pack and i'd need to grab a few dreams and tuck them away in my chapstick pocket for later discussion.

he towel dried, but forgot a few beads of water in the well his neck and shoulder blades created - and me - in my dehydrated state - drank it.
i prayed for tears when i realized the tattoo i created had broken free and was probably following the water down the bathroom drain.

it was gone.

the thing with permanent markers is they're never permanent on skin.

he removed the towel and wrapped himself in sheets that would never be made again...

then he left a free man.

wrote my father a note

so last night i wrote my father a note.

hey dad:

i was sitting in a cubicle today thinking about a poem i've been trying to write for you, but nothing seemed to make it's way from my head to my page.
last night i put my head on a goose feather pillow and my body under a down comforter and i put my arm around a boy.
well - not a boy - a man.

it felt good, but this morning i felt a sense of uneasiness because i remembered that one june when you and i walked to the corner store in the middle of the block.
i remember the two men in tight jeans and jheri curls, standing outside waiting on a cab, minding their own business.
i remember nobody really giving a shit about what was going on.
then you said it: 'fucking faggots need to get the fuck on.'

last night i lay next to a boy who will attend every graduation, clapping when my name is called. there will be flowers at show openings and tears at curtain closings.

this morning i stood in the mirror trying to keep my tie from going beyond the belt buckle.
i learned to tie a windsor knot on google.

i remember you telling me how much you hated faggots and how you only had two girls - not three.
and i remember how your face was never in the sea of faces at track meets or plays.
your voice was never heard among the hundreds screaming for the children with numbers on their back as they ran the bases.
i've walked across a few stages in a cap and gown, taking pictures with proud strangers and smilings moms and stepfathers.
i don't remember you there.
i remember you at that corner store in the middle of the block hating faggots.

i must be a faggot.
i must be one of those men you've hated because i don't remember you loving me outside of occassional tickles and the "my son's in college" line you'd blurt out in conversations with equally irresponsible friends to make them feel bad about their children.

they went home to their children, and woke up with their children, and walked their children to school.
and because they knew high school graduation would be the apex of their child's life, they made it a priority to be there when their name was called, because they knew that their child would thank them for everything.

so i must be one of those faggots.

so last night while i slept i held the hand of a boy who will not hate me.
even if tonight finds itself alone in the 'good memory' section of his brain, he will not hate me for anything.

i've thought of jailing you in my head in a cell with large homosexual sex offenders with syphillis.
then i figured this note may do what they are unable to do:

reach you.

it's not a hate thing.
i do this for love.

signed...

me.



and i closed the notebook, hoping the ink and tears wouldn't create some sort of chemical bond and stick the pages together. i needed these letters to be sharp in case the razor enclosed isn't.

so last night - after kissing a boy and letting him know that i am who i am because my father is who he is - i signed, sealed and delivered this letter to my father.

missed my stop.

so last night i missed my stop.

i sat across from the tired mother in her nursing uniform and her three year old daughter who seemed to be wide awake for the 5am A-Train downtown from harlem.

i thought about everything.
i thought about how great the day would have been had i opened my eyes this morning and he was snoring lightly beside me, smelling like old spice shower gel and usher cologne.

i thought about how slow this train was, and how little i cared because i had nothing to do when i got home or no one to tell about the pretty little girl across from me who kept plucking her half-sleeping mother's kneecaps then looking at me for a laugh.

i smiled.

in a 45 second nod i dreamt of biddi.
we sat quiet on a couch, smiling.
he'd look at me when i turned my head to look out of the window
but i could see him staring.
he wanted to a kiss.

so did i.
i turned from the window and his eyes shot to my tightly tied sneakers and not-so-skinny jeans.

i kissed him hard.
i kissed him to let him know he'd never have to ask 'how do you feel about me?'
i kissed him because i needed him to feel where i was coming from when i said 'i'm really feeling you.'

he kissed me back.

i woke up craving a red starburst from the blue pack.
the conductor announced my stop was next.

i pulled the pack of juicy deliciousness from my bag.
(yes...juicy deliciousness)

i chewed fast.
this was the taste on biddi's lips when i drove eight hours to find out for the first time.

this is why i craved the blue pack of starbursts from time to time.

the little hand of the little black girl across from me stopped plucking her mother's knee and began reaching out for what i had.

i gave her the purple one
and began telling her all about boys and which ones to look out for.
her mother would smile between her eyes cracking open slightly.

i told her:

'one day you will find yourself speeding down some major u.s. highway hoping that your phone's battery survives the distance, because once you arrive at your destination you will want to call him and let him know you're outside.'

she sat there with a sticky chin, but focused.
this little black girl was funny.

i told her:

'someday you will smack yourself and cringe with shame because you didn't really want to put all of your emotions out there to be left vulnerable.'

she laughed.

i finished:

'never enter a relationship with used emotional baggage. buy new.'

she giggled with no clue what was being said.
kids have always been my best audience.

the train began slowing.
i pocketed my starbursts and stood up.

the little hand of the little black girl stretched further and she giggled:

'one more please.'

i put on her her hand and one on her mother's lap so she'd smile when she opened her eyes.

the train stopped.

in the few seconds that passed i wondered what it would be like to take a train with someone you love. to stand waiting for the stop, holding on to his neck as he grabbed the pole to keep from falling hard.

in the few seconds that passed i missed everything.
falling on the bed kissing.
staring out of the window holding on to his pinky.
him.

she opened her eyes and smiled when the doors opened.
she said:

'someday - when she grows up...
she's going to fall in love with men just like you
and not know why.
but i will'

the door shut.
i missed my stop.

i wondered what the sun was doing.

so last night i missed my stop.

painted a short note on canvas.

last night i painted a short note on canvas.

the blank canvas sat on my wall for months bearing witness to the millions of dreams and hundreds of lonely nights taking place on the bed below.

i searched for paper to write him a letter.
i had thrown it all away when my thoughts seemed to team up with my inspirations and boycott.

i chose the canvas.
orange peel and cherry cobbler colors would bring it to life.

i painted the last kiss.
somehow this paint would need to explain how our lips seems to fit perfectly together.
there would be no footnotes to explain how we felt.
no similes could give the true feeling.
I kept painting.

I needed whoever read this painting to read:

---
biddi...

this is you.
yesterday.today.tomorrow.

I will gladly drive 9 hours
to spend a few minutes with you again.

this is us.
---

I kept painting in an attempt to not appear lazy.

love has become a lost art because most of the painters are lazy.

I painted all night.

so yeah...
last night I painted a short note on canvas.

played in the rain.

so last night i played in the rain - with biddi.

atlanta had gotten to be too much
so for a few days, he said, he wanted to check me out.

the weekend had been spent with sheets covering what's important
and every so often we'd put on backpacks and move among the millions
in manhattan's union square - 5th ave - canal street - chelsea.

monday morning he'd leave as though he had never come
and for what could be months we'd both be semi-single again
and that life wasn't designed with me in mind
so under covers and over bowls of captain crunch and lucky charms i begged him to stay.

he couldn't so we broke the hours into seconds so it'd seem like we had longer.
in those seconds we made as much love as possible, creating pleasant smells on my new mattress, and new focal points on each each.

we left the window open, and turned the heat up high
because we both love to sweat.

we listened to etta james and tweet
and tried to seperate the tears from the beads of perspiration.

the tears never made it to my chin.
they fell into his.

i begged him to stay longer.
he couldn't.

sunday night we sang on trains
and danced in streets.
the walked close to skyscrapers - me behind him
hoping the rain would be considerate and go around us.

the streets found themselves empty
but no longer thirsty.
i presented biddi with arms around his waist and lips to his neck - then ear.

he squeezed my hands back and we stood under the scaffold watching the new rain introduce itself to the old.

i released him from my arms and ran into the rain laughing.
i refused, this time, to let the tears and sadness show.

he joined me
and we kissed at the corner of WALK and DON'T WALK

he promised to return soon
and i laughed louder and longer as the rain ran down my face.

so last night i played in the rain - with biddi

moved

so last night I moved.

i sat staring at lights from the back seat of the chinatown bus - behind the sleeping brown skinned man with locks who could have very well been someone famous. but it was late, and my ability to care was missing.

i wanted to write something to my biddi (that's what i call him) but nothing came to mind. I hadn't talked to him in what seemed like forever, so I had no new inspiration...at least nothing that would pop off the page and make him call or text me between his packing and hugging his people goodbye. see...he's moving, too.

I wanted to ask the asian lady three seats up if she could tell me how far mahattan was from my new newark townhome...but I knew she had no clue.

newark. newark is now going to be the place where sunday dinners occur. the place where the bed becomes crowded and the wine bottles fill the trash can.

I sat in the closest seat to the restroom hoping noone needed to shit bad enough to use it.

the sean john hoody across from me came hints of the man beneath it. had it not been for the weed and cherry blunt smell, he may have gone unnoticed. his bag strap was tied tight around his arm so he could sleep in peace.

he is formally educated on basic economics. whatever he carried in his bag would feed him for months, I hoped.

and between playing 'where's waldo' with the moon and checking for attractive faces within 5 feet of me, I could think of only my biddi.

I want him.

and the bridges came and left...

and newark was no longer just a thought.

last night...I moved

put my face up in...

so last night i 'put my face up in his neck and breathe(d).'

he and i connected on more than the random conversations after midnight while 3000 miles apart. this was one of those 'wow...you think this could be HIM' type things. but i never wanted to say it out loud because shit can easily be jinxed. feel me?

but now the distance between us was much less than the 3000 miles that had existed before, but i miss him the same, and me having to skip to new york on a humbug mission didn't make that any easier. but i had to make the trip for work.

there's always that one song that reminds us, at least me, of that person we're trying to one day create a joint account with, buy a dog with, fight over who ate the last corner of the lucky charms with. for me it's j. holiday's "bed." i know...i know the song is old...but it still has that feel.

and it's not the whole song...it's more so the second verse. 'i'm staring at you while you sleep. irreplaceable beauty. put my face up in your neck and breathe. take you into my senses. wake up it's time to finish round two. 'round two. matter of fact it's closer to three. she's like "how long i been sleep"'.

damn...it does it even when writing this.

so i have that some placed randomly throughout my ipod playlist so it will play repeatedly and i can think about him and smile.

the flight attendant spilled a v8 juice on my express button up, but j. holiday forced me to give her a smile and my eyes went back to the ground thousands of feet below.

the white walls in the hotel room blew me. the bathroom was a joke. it wasn't bad at all, it was just too big, and the tub had massaging jets. the punchline was that i stood in there alone...no one to sit behind and breathe softly on his neck because i know it makes him freeze up. no one to stand in the bathroom while i brush my teeth, then kiss me afterwards to make sure i did a good job. i stood there alone.

i was supposed to call him from the plane once i landed, but talking to him while so far away only makes the loneliness that much more real, so i put that phone call on hold. i needed time.

he answered on the first ring, "you just landing?"
i lied, "yeah."
and we did the cliche after flight conversations about the comfort of the flight, the loud ass babies, and the white man beside me who wants to talk the whole flight to whoever listens.

then he says "i miss you already. how long are you away from me again?"
i smile and frown simultaneously somehow.
"a week or so. no longer than two."

then silence. he sighed.
we talked about the rain in atlanta and how it probably had something to do with how sad he had just became.

i didn't want to talk about the perfect day in new york.

the call was dropped.
i called back, but it went straight to voice mail. his phone must have died.

i called the airline.
there was one seat left on a flight leaving atlanta in 2 hours.

"my bad. my phone died."
"it's cool. where you at?"
"about to leave the mall. probably go home and take a nap. not feeling too up to do anything right now."

for a second i forgot i had just brought him a ticket to come see me before the sun set, so i was feeling sad, too, and was prepared to lay down on the king size bed and stare through the lace curtain from my 17th floor miniature suite.
then it hit me.

"take your car home, and get a ride to the airport within the next hour. i've been sitting here on this bed by myself listening to j. holiday."

he laughed. "are you serious?"
i laughed back. "yes. gotta be quick though."

i would have sworn the rain in atlanta had stopped. the first class ticket was worth the excitement.

"i don't have time to pack, though"
then a pause.

"just grab your toothbrush and your charger. and maybe a pair of swimming trunks. we'll go from there."

i ordered 'coming to america' on pay per view, and a shrimp and lobster pasta from the restaurant downstairs.

the bashful sun was attempting to hide behind a few night clouds, but it had not yet disappeared. it was beautiful. too beautiful to witness alone. no one would believe the sight.

and then the knock.

everything became blurry between the walk to the door and us laying on the bed, our legs locked, staring out of the window as the sun changed into her moon dress.

and i put my face into his neck. and breathed.

this was the life we asked for.

drew a picture of him.

so last night i drew a picture of him.

winter had began packing her bags to make her way to the other side of the world and i began unpacking mine looking for short sleeve polos and light denims.
the sun had put his foot down and claimed the day and begged me to open the windows to feel the heat.

and my phone rang.

his voice was hoarse and low, but excited. He reminded me of my promises to swim a few laps once the temperature went up, and i reminded him of his promise to find the secluded swimming hole with a sauna close by.

"i already have that taken care of. i'm on the way to scoop you."

it was still kinda cool, so an outdoor pool was out of the question, but i didn't want to ask because i'd swim in the atlantic in mid december if he were a few strokes ahead.

we were indoors.
his sister was out of town and her pool was empty.
and the sauna had just been fixed.

we raced to each end of the pool remembering the good old days of summer camp and getting darker. we laughed as we swam through each others legs, pretending it was an accident when our hands grazed leg hairs.

we played until our fingertips were white and our eyes were red.

we crawled out of the water, out shorts becoming airtight bags, and our eyes becoming voyagers as they trekked every bulge, groove, curve and lean on the other's body.

i could no longer breath.
i closed my eyes and reached out for the towel not far in front of me.

"how about that sauna?"

i opened my eyes and he stood four feet in front of me pulling down his shorts, not once removing his eyes from mine.
i closed my eyes again.

somewhere between my first five steps towards the door of the sauna and when the heat first discovered my skin i had removed my shorts and wrapped myself in a towel made with egyptian cotton.

he sat across from me where the two walls met.
his head down, his legs up and his thoughts deep.

i could still smell the soap he used when he showered earlier that morning.
the powder he applied after the cocoa butter lotion was lavender.
i could smell it all.
his skin was edible.
his hands and feet were stolen from gods.

i sat there...quiet...sitting.
my feet brushing against the floor and my hands to the side..

the heat began building.
i inhaled deep once i remembered to breathe.

i sat in that sauna holding onto a feeling i can't describe.
a feeling i wouldn't share with my closest friend.

and in my mind i drew a picture of him so that i'd remember this feeling always.

sat and waited.

so last night i sat and waited.

i placed the well-worn, low-sitting ikea chair beside my bed and rested.
this chair remained my favorite because of the deep dip.
the blinds had been raised earlier once the sun had been defeated. my favorite part of the day had long passed, and i found myself feeling some kind of way.

it's been weeks since i've fulfilled the human need of touch.
it's been days since i've licked my lips to get the attention of the cute one riding the metro every morning at 5:45am.
and my breaths have been slower.

i sat in this seat with my legs on the bed staring through the blinds at the tops of trees and beyond them into a gray abyss...
and i prayed with my eyes open that this wouldn't last always.

i prayed with my eyes open, asking that this feeling was as temporary as the few sips of cappuccino left in my only mug.
i prayed out loud for reassurance.

i could still smell 'black love' body oil in my tshirt and i could still remember the last day he wore it.

i watched mute bodies rush across the screen, and listened to the neighbor's toilet flush.
i wished i had onions in the fridge to chop so i'd cry to release this hold.

and i played sade's 'jezebel' and it happened.
i cried and realized he was gone.

mr. right will be here.
but right now he's in africa...and he's walking.

so last night i sat and waited.

was inspired to write again.

so last night i was inspired to write again.

over the hill is the highway.
i sat against the pillows that stood against my wall and let my fingers discover the keys all over again.
this was unfamiliar.

the last three weeks have been filled with jazz songs, newports and whiskey sours in shady lounges throughout the lower southern states.
i'm home now.
back to sunsets through the blinds and not the windshield.

and i could still smell him on my shirt.

we left the curtains open and kept the track lights on so anyone with a view of our fourteenth floor room could watch what we did when the road became too much.

they could watch as our breathing grew heavy and the windows grew white.
they'd see the tattoos on my back as it pressed against the sliding door and my head unable to remain calm.
they'd see our dicks go from one extreme to the other - repeatedly - mine often disappearing into his unknown.

then the kissing as though only one of us were leaving at checkout in the morning.

and then they can watch us sleep as though checkout would never come.
this is how we love.

and i remembered the picture i took from the highway when we pulled over to talk about our future.

and last night i wanted to write about it.
so i did.


so yeah...last night i was inspired to write.