It’s cold for a California night
near the start of May. The sky
was gloomy all day so some of you left
your suits at home. It’s alright,
wear what you’ve got. Music plays
through tiny speakers from a beer
soaked table as we line up, half
****, along the water’s cement edge.

The song is muffled, so I pretend
it’s The Shins. I can’t see anyone
through the rising steam, so I trip
headfirst to the bottom of the pool.

We get out every thirty minutes or so
to take shots, leaping back in without
a second thought. We don’t notice it’s pouring
until the lighters that live with our
glass pipes (within reach without leaving
the water) give out, and forget how
to make flames. Red cups have been
blowing off the table for an hour now
but we were too busy floating on our backs
and thinking this feels like home.

I am one to have my emotions under control.

Seventeen years of maneuvering around other’s
Peculiar mood swings
Taught me how to ignore
The chaos of human sentiment.
And so my features remain stoic since.

I have learned how to channel the anxiety
Manifesting itself in a jittery leg, shortness of breath,
And a discordant mind.
It is possible– Quite easy, actually–
To translate a torrent of worry
Into potential energy.

Three years in a closet
Is time enough to collect many pretty dresses
And forget there is ugliness in the world.
As much as I preach the virtue of honesty,
Lying has become second nature,
If only to keep these shark-infested waters
Calm for one more day.

I ought to be devoid of sentiment by now,
As much of a shell as that detestable Louisa Bounderby.
However, I recently found myself mistaken;
I am not a product of Utilitarianism.

Recently, I’ve been feeling–
Oddly ill.
With a loss of appetite,
A churning stomach herbal tea cannot alleviate,
Difficulty sleeping,
And a racing heartbeat.
These symptoms are purely somatic
And therefore, quite frustrating.

I met a girl last week;
I wonder if I caught it from her.

If I am to dig graves for the rest of my life
I wish to do it with my hair long and proud,
Swinging at the small of my back as a testament of
Will in the face of adversity,
Grown by the fruits of my labor.
I want to harvest the nectar
From the pear tree on my horizon
And when I eat my fill,
I will just as easily leave the sweetness behind,
Before it spoils and then,
I will look the hurricane in the eye and laugh,
Because I know it will baptize the earth
And my pear tree will be waiting for the day
This nomad returns to her roots.

If I am to choose between
A false lover and Uncertainty in the North
I want to have the gall to say,
“Brother, come at eight.”
I want to have the self-control
To lower the gun on a man,
Whose mind is a dank closet full of spiders.
By then, I must be ready to venture out,
And risk this Uncertainty in the North.

If I am to take my revenge,
I wish to do so without collateral damage,
And if I do,
I want everyone to learn that revenge
Will stab you with your own rapier
And that I am the kind of person,
Who will make you drink your own wine,
Because, in the end,
We are all sinners.

If I am to write propaganda to support
A nauseating turn of society,
I would rather be exiled.
Iceland, Siberia, The Ministry of Love:
They are all the same,
Because I will come out a different person
For better or for worse.

I wish to have the strength to cut my hair
Because I will not hesitate
To cut ties with anyone,
Who stands in the way of my passion.
I must be unorthodox
If I see my fellow men
Following in each other’s footsteps, with their eyes closed.
I will scream it in the streets,
“The world is not pretty.”

If I am to be unorthodox,
I wish to have faith,
Strong enough not to be undone by mere chance,
Strong enough so I can watch the coin fall:
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Accepting that I will one day die.
And if it involves a ship,
I will be its captain.