Mighty Morphin Fix

i think that, more than anything else, it was about friendship.
sitting and talking, just talking, for hours. hours on end.
about nothing at all. about everything you've ever needed to say
and never needed to hear.
substance: you wouldn't think it, but these kids have it.
and the worst part about it? the kid doesn't know how beautiful he is.
my fix, gotta have it.

i think that, more than anything else, it's in the denial and the proposal.
what could you possibly want from me at 2 in the morning?
we can sit and talk, just talk, for hours. hours on end.
heat lightning, plans for the greatest summer ever,
heavy air and cold raindrops. i'm home, come over.
windshield wipers on, locked and loaded, falcon to raptor, over.
my fix, gotta have it.

i think that, more than anything else, it's in the lies.
more truth than you can handle, in ambiguity and in metaphors.
in stretched stories and twisted adjectives,
there you have it folks, last chance.
i've captured something here, but you can have it back.
next to the power rangers is the greatest summer i ever had,
but this will be better. we planned it, after all.
summer fucks and fuckups,
my fix, gotta have it.

Decision

reassurance to live on, a vibration on my left thigh: a reminder that i am desired at 3 in the morning. and without that? nothing. what's so great about being a girl? well, let me show you.

what i am doing is wrong, and i haven't cared since.

fractions! figures! issues! what a beautiful atrocity!

besides,

the day was too short to not stop and talk to the dog.

...

“Why do we only fuck when we’re drunk?”

A pause, then a thoughtless, moreover, careless, answer, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know exactly what it means,” I answered in a soft, nonchalant voice. The entire dialogue was soft-spoken, the implications too heavy and neither one of us really cared much at all, I am sure. Rather, some sort of heartless conversation to take up space in the night sky. We were both all about the continuous cycle of regret, accepting that that’s what life was all about: one giant regret, or many tiny regrets all piled together, else you wouldn’t have something to toss and turn about every night. “Now finish this fag and shut the hell up,” gently placing the cigarette between his slightly parted lips. His lips gave a bit, the cigarette leaving a minimal impression on the pouty surface. I kept the cigarette at the left side of his mouth, biting my own lip as I concentrated on the matter. Then I rose, purposely swinging my right leg over to momentarily straddle him before standing up. He bent his neck to raise his head and let loose one of those exasperated grunts, but I paid no mind as I continued to rise and then walk away. The grass was cold and wet and splashed as I shoved my feet through it and I didn’t turn around—you can never turn around when you’re the first to go. I learned that from him some time ago, that turning around meant you were weak and that you actually might give a shit.

And I gave a lot of shit. A ton, actually. Two thousand pounds of steaming, hot shit.

The key went into its home and the engine of the Victoria purred, headlights illuminating the shadow of his lanky body, but he didn’t look either. Instead, I saw a puff of smoke rise, the same puff that rose after a mistake in the early morning. I turned the boat around and sailed on my way, the taste of him by way of a cancer stick lingering in my mouth. I gave weight to the pedal and the white dashes on the road became solid lines, the trees dancing in unison with the sounds of cars passing by, a constant whoosh of air. It was nights like these where I wonder how I ever made it home safe, dizzy and blurry and speeding and sad. Really, really fucking sad. Sad outweighing the fuzziness of vision, sadness outweighing the delayed dexterity of my fingers as I tried desperately to find a fitting song on the radio. A song to change everything, a song to remind me of some other mistake, some other starry night, anything but this.

...

mmm i hate titles, but i have chosen the title for my future autobiography:
existentialism is a bitch: the chronicles of steinle.

Rocks

i rest my hands on my hips
with the tips of my fingers flirting with
the opening of my pockets.
i hear waves, rather,
i want to hear waves crashing on the shore.
that would make this gray mist
appropriate.
this man, he sat across from me, with his little notepad.
inquisitive. about my future. about my secrets.
i don't want to tell you anything,
i don't want to give you any part of me.
but i will say: i just want to be okay.

my pockets give up and my hands take advantage.
i close my eyes and feel the cold, smooth rocks.
and what are rocks?
just the most powerful things we have at any given time.
from rocks you made the axe,
from rocks you made the wheel,
and from rocks i took all that i was away from you.

from rocks, we are safe from you.
from rocks, we reach our final destinations on our own accord.

but this boy?
he's different.
i'm not saying i'm okay yet,
but he's different.

i shove my hands deep
in my pockets, shrugging my shoulders
just enough to straighten my arms.
tense, i hold the thought:
women have rights now,
and the stones in my pockets
procure an entirely new meaning.

Hope

you know it's a bad idea when you walk into a rest stop bathroom and the first thought that crosses your mind is, "yeah. this is where i'm going to die." the toilet water permanently colored by rust, the tiles on the floor are brick red, or blood red?...no. and the lock on the door is visible at best. tiny shreds of dead tree on the floor give the vague shape of toilet paper remnants, tangible evidence of human civilization, albeit it subjective: it doesn't matter. you've got hope, kid, and that's what counts. someone had been here, in your very spot, clawing desperately for the tiniest possible shred of cleanliness. you decided to ignore the stench and dim light the moment you walked through the door, and the sink is home to human hair, vomit, and ants working the night shift. but the point of the matter is, when you gotta go, you gotta go, so as you turn to squat, you contort your face painfully and shut your eyes until it hurts, and remind yourself, "yeah, i'm gonna die."
.

paul is there, staring at the payphone, scared, not sure if he's going to knock the spider off the receiver or not. and who would? the spider was there first, and if we've learned anything from history, you back the fuck off if it's not yours, right?
his right hand makes a sweeping motion, he jumps back, regains consciousness, and picks up the phone.
i stay in the car, sweating, inhaling and exhaling the muggy air. across the intersection is nothing. once trees, maybe. once happiness, who knows. there's nothing there now, facing the storing garages, facing my high school. it's a disgusting little brown town, and i can't help but ask myself if this is how it feels when the feeling goes.
.

i base my life off of one simple question: would my fortune cookie lie to me?
if there's anything in this world that i can trust,
dear god let it be the shiny piece of paper
stuck in my complimentary treat.

Odds

there i am, going north on central park, rapid eye movement and cursive keeping me company as i try not to breathe out of my mouth and as i try to make my gait fall in accordance not with nightswimming (because you can't run to that. to that, you can only grow and come-of-age, and i did that yesterday), but to orange crush. from the asphalt to the blacktop to the sidewalk, i see it. right before i end the world, i see it. under the white aid of the streetlight (not an orange glow. some are white, some yellow, some orange, and the differential makes all the difference), i ran right over the beetle.

i murdered something, probably leaving some infants father-less, but i kept on running. the lyrical ballad of the big bang no longer keeping me occupied, i couldn't help but wonder: what are the odds that that happened? what are the odds that at 8:42 p.m. [CST] i, kendall, set out for my nightly jog, and 1.7 miles into it, stepped on a beetle (who could have also been taking his nightly round?). what if i had left my dorm one second sooner? or later? or if he had paused for just a moment? what's more: my right foot did the dirty work. what are the odds that he lucked out, avoiding the wrath of my left, which was undoubtedly a closer threat?

what are the odds?
i want numbers. i want them, on my paper, here, now.
i wouldn't mind having numerophobia in addition to oneirophobia; what's the difference?
that didn't make sense,
and what are the odds? (very likely? oh, how funny.)

holding hands in the dark, from promises to regrets, and back again. panting, mistakes, sweaty successes, i'm a fucking wreck. what are the odds?

[edited for sanity's sake, not that sanity ever did anything for me.]

Beans And Queens

as hurricane kendall ripped through her drawers, she asked,
why don't i have a t-shirt exhibiting my profound adoration of my favorite men with guitars?

she answered,
i don't know.

then came her rebuttal,
oh, yes i do,
I'M BROKE.

i want:
a sports watch.
a toyger.
to remove the bean from its current location and put it in my backyard.
a big, tall, cold glass of ciderrrrrrrrr.
answers.
a better body.
an even better-looking resumé.
a future....

....ooo, too far?


the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our cars and watch molly stark put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our beds and watch others put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

and when those two fail?

....ooo, too far?

Il Pleut Des Cordes

it's really like this: the bricks shiny from the rain (always, always, always raining), slippery, a deathtrap from above. i miss walking in that rain. getting off the tube at the wrong stop, homework waiting for me on my desk, but making a visit nonetheless. the hillhead stop always smelled awful, the cold air outside crashing into the warm heat from inside. a child with a cup outside. crowded sidewalks, umbrellas, the walk, the rain, all the rain (always, always, always raining), and people who made my world spin.

there are times when it's appropriate to speak with another person:

on long walks,
around campfires,
and the morning after (sometimes).

i try to speak about things of paramount importance: things that matter.
instead, what comes out are stories about stupid summer boys,
how and why i feel the need to paint my toenails,
my utter disdain for yogurt,
multiregional continuity,
how galaxies collide,
and the rain.

always, always, always the rain.