When we got really bad,
I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar to make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.
You are the only person to whom I’ve lied, knowing
I was telling the truth.
Pretend for one moment you are me, because you are. I have always been your moment. The first time. Anytime this universe exploded inside your stomach and you could not stop saying, love, love, and love, and you.
Following the proposal of the UA_PBC (Ukrainian public channel) and the approval of Jon Ola Sand, the following order of action has been determined in the Grand Final of the Eurovision 2017 Festival with the aim of making a show pleasant and simplifying the work and rythm of a show with 26 live performances.
I threw my hands from my wrists because I liked the way the beat sniffed around the speakers like a dog searching for the right place to shit. My butt was against my blue jeans against the ripped leather of some couch listening to some beautiful poet profess what they dreamt about once, because they are scared to write out the new dreams, because they are happening right now, which is a good time to tell you that I am not alone. I’m next to one hot cup of soup. She could melt the wax off the wick if you catch my baseball. Now, I don’t know her. Just two people, one couch, and a bundle of old dreams, but I cross my left leg in her direction like a knight if the couch were a chess board.
In my newest dream I think I see her see me. I think I see her adjust her butt against her pants against the leather right now, which is a good time to tell you that my heart has not been working right. It’s a cold bowl of wax. It could freeze the juice off a mango. I have been carrying this pistachio in my ribs for months. I have been trusting people only when I write about them. I have been straight to voicemail. I have been sewing a dress from all of these books and wearing it to my one-man prom. And I don’t know what her hair smells like, but I want to. I don’t know what her mother’s name is but I want to send her an email questionnaire. I want to reach my arm to the right now, which is a good time to tell you that she is two ladies–
and only one I got an email from that said she’d only met me but she knew me. Only one I got an email from that said she only knew me but she loved me, and I said I don’t believe in magic outside of my poems, I said you can’t love me, all I did was write a book, and she still wrote me back. Only one did I like the comment she made on someone else’s Facebook status, and it isn’t the one right here, but my elbows heard the beat ride out the speakers on horseback. And my shoulders got yanked by some invisible lasso.
I am talking to the air with my entire body, and if I was waiting for the perfect time to say HowDoYouDo? If I was waiting for an invitation to a dinner party? If I was waiting for a flow chart to say Trust is risk like poetry; for a sign to spark in the back of all these dreams that she said, Jon, let it ride; to hit send until I already had a transcript of the reply–
I am already thirty, old enough to know one day my heart will shut down altogether. I get to choose for what.