we were crowded around him
the ripples lapping at the sand
and continuing forward
all the way to us
and through us
from our toes to
the top of our heads

i felt warm
as the very last of the
dark purple sunset departed
chased away
by moonbeams and constellations
and by the little hand
moving intently in its circle

we took our shoes off
put them in a pile on the sand
socks too
rolled up our jeans
lighting matches
and watching the trails
when we swirled them
in circles and other shapes
and you spelled out my name
which stood there floating
for a few seconds
faintly illuminating your face in the dusk

and now (it’s been
about two years since)
i realize why i can’t go down
to the rock anymore.
it’s because you all took it with you
when you finally got back
into the car and left
and i walked smiling up the stairs
back home

i mean
it’s still there
down by the sand and spray
but you took it, somehow
and i hope you keep it
forever and it still
keeps you warm

you would sit down there
and it would prick your back
and surprise you
but you could never be mad
because of the smell

our clothes didn’t match
and there was this
big tear in my jeans
that got worse
every time i cleaned them
you always made fun of me for that
and you were wearing
green and red and blue and yellow bracelets
at least five or six of them

when he pressed the button
i was gazing at you
but you were looking away
ironic isn’t it?
and i remember we were
talking about
silly things mostly old t.v. shows
just like usual

and he stole that moment for us
for me at least
to look back on
which i do, most every day
but i wouldn’t dare tell you that
for fear of seeming
(fill in synonym for weird here)
and it reminds me of you
and of summertime

Sometimes I forget the fun and the learning
Because all I remember is your temper burning
But then some years later, someone makes a remark
And I think, that’s familiar, but the details are dark

You know that episode, that show, that song?
I do, but wow, haven’t thought of it in so long
Wondering if I can forget the bad that rides with the good,
It might be worth it, just to see if I could

Sometimes it works, and again it’s all new
New memories featuring new faces, not you
They may never know the full scope of their gifts
Or how they succeeded – without trying – in healing a rift.

Now, only silence sits with us,
And not the comfortable one,
At least not on my end.
Making the space between us
Seem like hundreds of miles.

It’s not that we went separate ways.
We still do the exact same things,
Just not with each other,
Just not anymore.

We once considered each other family.
Once we even joked that we married.
Where there was one of us,
The other was never far behind.

Now, you sit in your room
Watching that stupid television show.
Now, I sit in the living room
Playing that stupid video game.

Our paths once ran together,
Like two pieces of a different puzzle,
Fitting together in perfect harmony.
Now, the edges of each piece are seen,
Messily overlapping one another.

It’s sad that we don’t talk, really.
When you think about it enough.
Once we called each other
Friend, Sister, and Wife
Now, we don’t call each other,
Knowing only silence will answer.

She smiled and wondered
If he even knew
A Rembrandt from a Renoir

“No, I mean PAINT me, silly!”

She longed for the feeling
Of cool, wet latex dripping
From her nipples, running
In rivulets of color between
Her thighs, down her
Calves, between her toes.

Jason hesitated as
She began to remove
Her t-shirt.

She stepped naked onto the
Tarp in their empty living room.
Brush in hand, he dipped
Into the can of New Colonial Yellow
They had chosen together
At Sherwin-Williams
With the help of a salesman who,
Like them, sought warmth. He had
Thick glasses and an unruly
Mustache which she knew would
Tickle.

Jason touched the brush to her
Belly and she winced from
The cold latex.
She felt the paint making it’s
Way down towards her sex.

She grabbed Jason’s hand and
Moved it around her torso.
He hesitated.

“Paint me.”

With more confidence, Jason
Moved the brush back and forth
Across her lithe body, liberally
Dipping and painting her naked
form.

She laughed as he painted her
Nipples with the
Cornflower Blue Semi-Gloss
The cool paint on her body
Was a refreshing, colorful bath.

When he had finished painting her,
She pressed herself against the clean, white
Wall and stepped back to admire their
Work. She was there on the wall and
There in the room. The wall was a kind of
Impressionist mirror.

“Perfect.”

It wasn’t until I grew up that we became friends,
After I’d completed my share of moving,
Tried my share of illegal substances,
Loved my share of people.
We became friends out of convenience,
I was old enough to be in a bar,
But not old enough to drink.

So, every night I had off work,
We’d all go out.
You, me, Dad, and Beaker -
Your only friend it seemed.
You all would knock the drinks back,
While I laughed and watched,
Waiting to load three drunken men into my Chevy

On my twenty-first birthday,
We became best friends,
One friendship left over
From my ill-fated attempt at love
With your best friend, Beaker.
The night was long, the drinks were short.
I drunkenly kicked your ass in guitar hero.

Now, we go out every week,
You, Me, and Beaker.
We drink and we dance.
Beaker and I still make out.
Your friends at the bar look at me with interest.
The bartender looks at me with a smile,
“Don’t worry, it’s not a girl,
Jay’s just her brother!”

(This was going to be an ode at first, but I can’t wrap my head around meter enough)

they were memories of waiting in the bank parking lot
trying to bum rides from
friends lucky enough to have them
cigarettes balanced carelessly out car windows
music from random burned cds filling the air
where it merged with
that indescribable scent of summer
that always permeated the apartments
of close friends
where he stayed late into the night
building pyramids out of beer cans
and posing ridiculously for polaroid shots

memories of drinking glasses of wine
down by the waterfall
or by the baseball field at the park
and setting off sparklers that one night
always flirting with the girls
and never really caring what time it was

so as he rested his head on the pillow
comforted by the memories
and hoping they would continue
into the night,
he made a resolution
that he would remember to pay heed to
the small things more often
since they are what make life
so damn livable

after nights of discussing books and politics
and drunkenly filling in the clues
of old, half-completed crosswords
from august new york times issues
a full ashtray meant 5 a.m. was near.

a series of car rides, four friends somehow
packing into the backseat
to make a quick run to the gas station on the corner,
afterward the empty bottles accumulating through the night,
the empty packs of marlboro reds retracing the hours

most of us would never have work the next morning;
we did not know the agony of the nine to five
at that time we just skipped classes
and slept at the older kids apartments
until mid-afternoon.

telling time never interested us
carefree, hourfree, minutefree
instead we thought the world was ours
and that it didnt belong to the clock
or the calendar or any of those odd devices

and at times it still seems like we were right,
right all along.
we feel it most at work
as the haze rises from an outdoor ashtray on a five minute cigarette break
and we wish those five minutes lasted as long as our youth.
http://poetryassignment.com/2008/12/assignment-clock/

you would bring the camera with you
one time in that grocery bag
and the apple juice spilled
all over the lens
the pictures from disneyworld
all came out with an orange tinge that year.
but you always brought it,
filling pages upon pages of albums
documenting those more innocent days,

those albums wound up somewhere
though none of us can quite remember
but even if we cannot find them
up in some dusty box in the attic
or at my grandparents house,
i will probably always remember
my favorite one
making pizzas with you and dad
and me in the middle giggling as i stirred up a cloud of flour

http://poetryassignment.com/2008/12/assignment-flour/

My mom was baking
Flour handprints on her red slacks
Cartoons on TV

Then, the news broke in.
I thought my mom was crying
Because her pies burned.

Assignment: flour