e-mail: nick@infragilis.org website: http://www.infragilis.org AIM: InvertedPurity school: Bennington College major: Philosophy, with a minor in Caffeine Addiction influences: Bill Hicks, T.S. Eliot, Dorothy Parker, Allen Ginsberg Renegade obituary writer. Self-inflicted musical elitist who knows his navel better than anyone else. A veteran (survivor?) of Cafe Eclipse. Mix-tape junkie. Devoted to Bic ballpoint pens with black ink. Still trying to find his voice.

Matchsticks

You're best like matchsticks - 
held safely in a book, 
nestled in the rough fabric of bluejeans. 
Incendiary and knowing, 
threatening but not malicious, 
sitting in a row. 

For I've known fire - 
that is to say, I've known fire 
much like children of the 90's 
know Jimi Hendrix, know the times 
when people used matches, and not lighters. 
Like the communal knowledge, passed down 
through every sigh of longing, every look 
that would make chastity melt in fear. 
I've held this in the palm of my hand, 
but not knowing what will happen, 
only what could. 

And that's why I refrain, 
not wishing to cause any commotion, 
not wishing to ignite things 
best left without illumination, so as to avoid 
both light and shadow. 

A life lived in sparks 
grows chilled when you're around, 
as if fearing the spaces between the words. 
I only know the inherent threat, what might happen, 
tracing out my actions against outlined predictions. 

You're best left like matchsticks, 
knowing full well 
I could never set you on fire. 

Copulatory

I wonder sometimes if I could have fallen deeper -
if my gaze possibly could have been harder, more stoic, less careful.
They say not to look into the abyss,
lest you're comfortable with the fact that the abyss stares back into you,
except this time the abyss is white bedsheets and you can't break the gaze
without breaking inside. You stop walking but
can still linger like shards of yourself.
And we're so mature and sophisticated.

We write each other in as late-night appointments,
squeezing a fifteen-minute blowjob in with a three-moment session
of awkward cuddling. Add in about twenty seconds for underwear-fumbling,
three steps to the door, and you're gone.
Literally.

It's like some kind of inward revenge for never getting laid in high school - 
every thrust pretending to be provenance that geeks can get the girl.
The lie of it all is that you're not really getting the girl, you're getting the
experience of the girl, so you can remember the picture in your head
which matches up horribly with the picture in the bed, painted without hope
of turpentine. If only we could be so lucky
as to write our lovers in with brushstrokes!

Ha ha ha. That was the joke.
Get it?

Every time a condom wrapper rips, they say
another lie gets its wings, or its tusks,
becoming the giant pink elephant that everyone speaks around
or fucks around
or just ignores, avoiding consequence in favor of something more -
we're supposed to feel so alive, but instead commit a minor suicide
with every petit mort. This isn't a crime, though whether or not there are victims,
well ...

I'll let you think about that.

And so you'll wonder,
and you'll wander - it's not as though you can leave a trail of crumbs to find your way home - 
the predators seem completely benevolent, interesting, 
connected,
or the victims not seeming victimlike, so deceptive.
Me, I'll bite my nails and sigh,
watching myself over head - 
you really mean it this time,
right?

Retort

It comes again,
and all of the sudden I'm three sheets to the wind
and running - 
I don't want to carry the leaves, I want to
be the leaves. I don't want to be reliable
like you think I am.

I want to come across like a punch to the mouth,
but my momma always told me not to hit people - 
my badness, therefore, is contradictory: "you're such a teddy bear,"
the others say, and I wish I had fangs.
If I were going to be a teddy bear - 
if I had to - 
I'd want to be missing one eye
and have a rip on the back of the right leg, tag missing.

I try so hard.
It comes again, and I end up ripping into myself -
one of the unspoken advantages of being a teddy bear
is having claws.
My friends, they think being doubled over
is an invitation for cuddling - then run screaming.
I hibernate, dreaming; I would join them in their screams
if not for my mouth, stitched shut to a tiny 'x.'

This really isn't my nature.

Faceless

This shadow without sunlight
lingers, uncomfortable, baseless -
I wandered through the valley
without eyes, mouth, ears - faceless.

I wandered as a defiant loner
through the valley of your indifference.
I left my footprints in the sand
for quite a painful distance.

I left my footprints in the sand,
a line of blood behind me.
How could you miss it? Surely not.
You could, but didn't, find me.

How could you miss it? I was loud
in my attempts for your attention.
Ignored, I wandered, I persist,
unworthy of your condescension.

Ignored, I wandered, I remain,
no dignity, and graceless.
A shadow, still without a sun,
lacking eyes, mouth, ears - faceless.

Restraint

The thing I never said was - 
I wish I hadn't - 
You were so … and
I simply couldn't. I wouldn't
ever - did you consider
that time when - and then
I wish I hadn't, no.
I'll tell you, again.

The problem here is this:
well, not really, but -
I spent so much time, wondering.
You never could have, yet
you said, you promise and I - 
no, no, that's not the case.

You never knew about
the things I … you wouldn't guess
and yet I feel so - 
I don't think it was.

These things are not truths, 
but they … you've got to give it credit.
The thing you never knew:
I said, and fucking meant it.

Rhythm

Kick a rock along the walk
and watch it rattle, roll, and clatter.
I've seen my heart go through the same - 
who of you thinks it matters?
The faded hugs of things I've done
unravel into waving hands
or middle fingers - it all depends.
And still I shuffle, roll and clatter.

Discarded trash along the side,
a flier, maybe, or an ad,
I've folded up my soul the same
throughout the times I've had.
The coats of rain that drown the streets
they seem to linger on for days.
The aching cold still haunts, not dies,
and still discarded, folded, shattered.

The music ends, the chorus falls,
the rhythm like a sultry fade.
I've wandered off in similar times,
a ghost of all the beds I've made.
I hang along, and off the side,
a jangled swing to dying wind - 
the bitter sunlight soaks my mind,
and still the rhythm wanders on,
as if I ever mattered.