Poe ms

POEMS OF LUCAS REGAZZI

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This will be my 8th untitled document

And the last document Ill need to complete
Every last sentence, Ill speak this to you in confidence, that I know now
That we are the same heart
Because hurt is inevitable, and although hurt seems stronger than any of your last I love yous and any of
your beautifully woven hurricane thoughts
About how you feel
We still knock on each others door to hear the hearts footsteps anxiously run closer to welcome us in
But before I let you love
Kick off your shoes, please
Destroy your shoes, set fire to your fucking shoes
Because Ive been walking bare through the muds of empty promises and frost ridden blades of grass
and rocks so sharp they could
Cut my soles and youd be bled of me, whole-heartedly
Swept away like a red nile, overflowing this whole damned city
Of hurt so bad Ive had to catch my breath perchance Id exhale every second thought Ive had of simply
abrogating your existence
Of canker soars from all of the deeply salted wish chips that Ive wished, for one more kiss, or two more
kisses
Of regretting turning myself inside out
A dandelion waiting for October until the wind dries out
And all is left is an unlovable, bulbous stem
Children stomp on flowers like that
Well, most that is
This was going to be a
Sad poem
A
Ill never hold you again
poem
A dissolving of apparent sweet nothings that tasted as sweet as anything real that Ive allowed myself to
indulge in
But you stopped me
Told me you needed time
That the clock in your room wasnt big enough for the hope that you had that one day things would
work
That gears were grinding in these clocks, theyre just too small to hear
And there are millions of grains of sands in this hourglass of years
But its only been two weeks, and fear haunts the senses
Making each touch feel like 500 volts, and I illuminate my darkest secrets
The amount of times Ive resisted the urge to hold your hand,
many,
the hateful words Ive constructed,
plenty,
The worth I had when you slipped and pulled my hand to the pavement,

pennies
And as you remove your vest and hang it up
On the rack closest to my aorta
I want you to know that my heart is your home
And that, we all fuck up sometimes
Even this January rains
Even dandelions turn white and old
But that doesnt make them any less than they ever were
This is my 8th untitled document
The one that will outshine the 7 bitter storms of words that I couldnt write
I love you for stopping me

Sometimes I feel as though Im going insane

Like Im a child again, revved with fury in my head
About never getting what I want and having every explanation
for why I should be
Or why everyone else should be
Now, tell me if Im being foolish, but am I the only one
In search of spiritual communion?
Something holy, but not anything that could be found
At the alter, more like
In the parking lot outside, where the blood is not consumed but rushed up
With hiked skirts and true sin, passion and bite marks on every last goose bump that
Trails your neck like an uncharted map, with each protrusion signifying an adventure to be had
And your hair draping your face like a confessional
Let us make like the host and share ourselves
Feast on each other
Because I know I lacked a father, and your face tells of lost valour
So, who cares? We all have chunks missing, lets fit together like the fucked up puzzle that we are
Because Im tired of this soul playing bumper cars
With every passing possibility of someone who could be something
And I want nothing less than a naked soul, nothing poisoned by a guard

I remember sneaking out of bed at three AM in a sleep-deprived panic

when my parents old and breaking hearts echoed off of the taupe walls and into
my ears, age nine.
I was fearful that it was my fault when I decided that I didnt want to do the dishes
(Im sorry).
Tip toeing with the elegance of a toy soldier; I hid behind the Christmas tree that was up one month too
early for presents and
I peeked into the living room. I was bright orange like a firefly on the wall, eavesdropping.
Half of my face was lit by nothing but the screams of the fireplace and
the heat of them trying to pick up the pieces.
Im glad we moved away from Ravendale, into that big, new house on Jenkinson because I would have
never stopped searching the floor for any left over shards.
Mom, I know you would have too, but you liked to vacuum.
As if thirty years of your life could fit inside of a two inch wide tube.
Sometimes I wonder when your love went sour or
when your heart turned bitter or when
ninety seven point nine degrees farenheit became a mere
ninety seven. Was it when he made love with his
work? Im sure at twenty one in a white dress and his white shirt
every love looks better in words; in a
vow to always pick up his underwear from behind the bathroom door,
but I dont think you cared much for laundry, either.
As I was in the garage just now, having one last cigarette for the evening I remembered
what youd said about fate, specifically ours and
that things would be different had Nora not died. That this would all be different.
And so I romanticized about different like different meant better.
As if different meant perfect: I would be in New York City,
I would have never been foolishly in love, Nora would have taught her son how to be a husband and
taught you to be happy.
When I peeked into the living room, Grammy couldnt do much to hold me
back, but Im sure if she were here she would have told us
that different does not mean perfect.

It feels weird
Writing you out like a distant idea.
Understanding that my words have made you a memory,
kind of like the mulberry tree that I used to pick from
or a girl called Laura from my childhood, who is admittedly my
first love.
You are the second love that Ive felt the need
to make a memory. You are, however, the first Ive felt
like my words are a courtesy, or my thoughts are excessive.
Instead of a splinter, I thought a forest of you.
You were a mosquito bite
treated
like a storm of locusts.
You have not made me
bleed as much as this poem wants me on a hospital bed.
I am not here, wishing for Winter
or pleading for a handshake. I am only
sad that all youve done is made me in between.
I am a crack in the sidewalk, I am a mattress cover, I am
holding a plane ticket, I am dissonance.
I may be torn.
But I am not drowning, I am not
breathing,
my soul is soggy like a wet napkin after
a cup of coffee has fallen
in love
with the floor.

And then the sun shone brighter, even if it was through the slits of the blinds that cage the windows and
all things that I need to run through. I could see, though barely, the fields of flowers that I could graze
with my hands, feel lifes colours and smudge the palettes onto the blank canvas of my skin.
Though life has this funny way of dissolving your vulnerability to the greatest incubus.
I sat quietly as you pulled me by the hairs of my neck, bleeding as your nails dug into my mind, scorning
me. Im scorned, Im scorned, Im scorned. Belittling the treasures Ive found, of these infinitesimal
fucking slits through the window by ripping the coverings off the glass, pushing hard; my face to the
frost, showing me the world like you are seeing it, like you want me to see it, like you want me to push
you off but you dont. You long for me to be colourblind, frail with regret and betrayal and the nonsense
of wilting but Im a young, hopeless dreamer who is far too young to dissolve.

SMALL
Youre not doing well and finally I dont have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
but
Ill rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
Ill cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
Ill walk you to the hospital,
Ill wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries
to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that youll find your place,
its just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
and
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that its my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts arent eating you alive.
If Im to speak for myself, Ill tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and youre the only one that made that idea
less devastating.

Dewy August:
Im having a cigarette at a time where Id normally be a few hours into
rest, at six in the morning, a suburban soundtrack of commuter traffic still faint enough in the wind
and my breath, a thick cloud coating new air. My brain says twelve degrees but Im
aproned in thoughts warm enough to light a forest fire.
August, you will be trying,
and August I will try my best
not to panic over Septembers return, but August,
you must promise me that you will
hold my hand until the very last day,
where our goodbye will leave me fragmented; a catalogue of sorts, secrets of the summer, the faded
heart ache of Winter, you must keep it
until the next time we meet, a year today,
to show me how much Ive grown.

It wasnt beautiful. A Winter wedding is a union of elation and depression, red velvet blankets in a cheap
motel room stained with semen from sex devoid of meaning, and black mold clinging to the fringe of
floral shower curtains like a heap of dead forevers.
You sat down at the foot of the bed, looking at me like I had alreadydriven away. I was thinking about
watching CNN. How fucked up is that? I wanted to know that your second hand, off-white dress, and my
black polyester bow tie wasnt as tragic as a hurricane devouring a suburb, or a train derailment in no
where, Virginia, ending the lives of two young college hopefuls.
I was nave. I thought that there were as many right ways to feel love as the amount of
pubic hair,
belly lint, and
scratch marks abandoned by lovers in our honeymoon suite.
When you looked at me in bed that night, I put my hand on your chest to feel a little more human. I
dont know what to call you; a name does not describe the aches, or lack of. This love is unusual and
comfortable.
If you were to leave, I know Id search for days, in newspapers and broadcasts, in car accidents and
exposs on genocide in Kosovo.
(How do I address this? How is one to feel about
a love without a name?)
My heart would be ambivalent, too scared to look for you
behind the curtains of the motel window, outside in the abyss of powder and pay phones
because I dont know how to love you.

Perhaps youre fascinated

by the contours of my cheeks
with skin like bed sheets that
hide all of the complexities of whats underneath,
and present an image of simplicity
(that is easier to digest than
skipping heart beats for hairy legs).
I wonder if
these next six nights
of not having to feel
so alone will make you
wondrous in keeping me
as a bedside table:
to place your hard times on
before you get the forty winks
your eyes need
to glisten in the midday light of my
bedroom.
And its hard to
fall back into sleep
when Ive fallen in love
with studying the one that lies next to me.
I wonder if youve found landscapes in my
elbows like Ive found
ebbing tides in your forehead.
Perhaps your love for me is fleeting,
and youll have moments where you
consider tearing yourself even further apart,
but as soon as its possible
you close your eyes again,
fall out of the thought
and back into sleep.
But, perhaps youll keep me as a bedside table:
to place your brain things in my cupboards,
to place your step dad in my cupboards,
to place your sad eyes in my drawers,
to put your heart ache in my
mouth, your desire for love in bite marks on my
neck, and your misty breath in my
ears
whispering you are so important to me.

im starting to lose the memory in my fingers tips, blades that once carved the bones in your head now
lie dull at my writing desk
i have yet to move my hands to write important prose or grocery lists (i look to the bruised apple,
perched at the corner of the table as if a threat of suicide) i only have the effort to scribble
and re-scribble reminders in my brain to buy cigarettes (although these words never have enough time
to weather). Divine
Apatheia, if Youre alone, im alone. i know that doesnt make sense, its just that everyone elses
unholiness frightens me. say, if i were to wed a dangerous love, a painful surrender, id
tap,
tap, force nails into these knees, become anxious, fidgety, and
write, ache, write feverishly about what it used to be like to run with scissor fingers, sculpting
poetry intyour bones

If I were asked to recount the day (count backwards, churning seconds into the
mound that makes a year), when I touched our nitrogen dipped earth and it
shattered itself into symmetry or asymmetry (depending on your vantage),
I would reserve that kind of sorrow for a self
that loves itself without question.
These words (entwined with frozen dew, shards of grass,
an image of your body lying bare against my belly) are tainted. you
edit my words as I churn ink into poetry, churn
wine into courage, grind pity into more sorrow into concrete, gradually
mixing and patching pieces of the world back together.
Back, together back together these words are still
two pounds too heavy. If I recount the day
that had me transferring between lines on the subway (my
home, uprooted your bed, unscathed all of the important things
of an elephant weight), I would blame my hands for their lack of grace,
blame the sun for its cowardice, the moon championed that day (the
day I almost leapt from my dorm window, alongside the meaning that fled
so far from my finger nails, my laundry bin, the Isis in your eyes). you watched me
reduce myself to a child in need of a ward, an intervention, nodding at strange questions, feigned
clench-tooth smile and yet a year is a mound. Ive seen it all
collapse, and then unfold into something I dont quite know yet. Soon, time
will don new meaning to sure ground, Ill look back to a day, bound in
leather, that reads more like a history of fighting for.