Today would have been 10 years.

Death is dumb when no one's dying.

You keep to your side of the city,

and I can list on just one hand

all the streets I'll never catch you on.

I am anchor-shaped

which is to say

I'm heavy on the bottom

and real good at stayin'

put

your arms around me, darling

I will keep us where you want n'

even after you decide it's time you'd best be

movin' on

I'll do what all good anchors do, n' stay

right where you

leave me.

My entire life, I've always thought

that if I were just a little smarter

or worked just a little harder

I could solve all the problems

and I would be happy.

If I could just love more completely,

communicate effectively,

then I could keep all of my loved ones,

solve all the problems,

and be happy.

I am 31.

Time has done with me what it does to rocks

at the bottom of a fast moving river.

And I am smooth and smart and work real hard

and love like a well spoken sunuvabitch

but the problems persist

and the loved ones move on

and happiness, I'm finding,

never comes.

He still loves us, he says

and I ask what that means.

"I don't know", he says

"Nothing, I guess"

I'm kind of shitty at love poems.

If I wrote a love poem tonight,

it would be for a man who doesn't exist

rather

a man who no Longer exists

rather

a man who exists but only when He says,

and he's usually had a few drinks

by then

when it hits him just right and he looks

in my eyes, and sees

something like wood burning

warming,

like home.

Alcohol makes me seem lovely, you see.

Or less boring or more like

untouched sheets of snow.

I was so lovely once, I was given

a child.

And thinking of him now,

his hard citrus smiles,

his weight as he curls himself around my head,

I conclude that love poems revolve around him.

And in this way, I'm pretty good

at them.

It's a strange thing to consider

meeting someone new.

Someone who might like Herb and I

enough to want to see us sometimes.

What a strange and distant thought it is.

Guess I should start wearing

clean shirts.

"No sense in just one of us suffering"

All my hangouts are disappearing.

The Patch.

The pool hall.

The hotels where I'd felt

myself.

The frog trapped in the act of leaping,

never to enter the pond.

Gone gone gone

like someone's

Erasing me or

somethin'.

And maybe they are.

Maybe he is.

I never liked when he'd refer to exes

as 'whatsherfuck' or 'whatsherface'.

Someone he cared about as much

as his handicapped heart would

allow.

He'd act like their time meant

so little to him

that he couldn't remember their names.

But hell, maybe he really couldn't remember.

Guess that means the procedure

works.

I've been too tired to put much thought into these, lately.

Uninspired. Seldom turned on.

No word combination is gonna land me anything,

much less anything I

want.

Ah, the pastards.

Let them live there if they must.

The present may not be as fun,

but at least our hopes are still breathing here;

let them drive themselves insane

trying to keep their Airplane Mode brains

from collecting too much dust.

Walking away is something I

have never been able to do.

My shoes clunk. I trip on toys.

I find any excuse to

stay.

Crying my guts out in a downtown courthouse,

I find that little has changed.

I start to tell you that I'd rip up these papers

if you'd only love me and our son.

But as I wipe my eyes and suck up my snot,

I find that you're already gone.

A child belonging to someone I don't know

runs a little too far from their parents.

And often, when I see kids on their own,

I make up my mind that they are my responsibility

(for as long as it takes for their folks to catch up).

I consider the pulp I would beat someone to

if they decided to mess with this kid.

I consider how many buses I'd shove

aside to get to

my own.

And love isn't violence,

it's more of a calm reassurance

of things that are true.

And I have taken many licks

fighting for us, darling

Hoping that you'll jump in but you

never do.

In the darkness, when I cannot sleep,

I sometimes picture

a daughter.

Her eyes widening with surprise and disgust

as her brother shoves pizza rolls in his mouth.

Her little voice asking

why brothers destroy things.

Her hundred yard stare when I say

I don't know.

And the love in my heart

like a mythical river

being poured from a bottomless pot.

My love is like a tanning bed -.

You choose the intensity!

My love is like a safe word no one knows how to

pronounce.

My love is like a pump up shoe

or hotdog suit

or escape room.

Some people are into it,

though I can't imagine who.

I feel very certain

I was born to love.

The question remains though...

Now what?

Death is a

shitty reminder

of how little everything

means.

Squabbles. Snaps. Words not taken back.

That time they sort of called you fat.

I never feel so low as when

I realize nothing

matters.

Conversely, death so brings to light

the Measure of little

things.

The fullness of their open arms.

Their eyes, soft and relieved to hear

that you were well, weren't nothin wrong.

Their face when they laughed at your jokes.

The little things that now resemble

coats that don't fit anymore.

Death

is an uninvolved ant hill

of Innumerable

details.

And tonight, I remind myself that love

can survive death itself.

If you have Spotify and notice

that I'm listening to the

same Sturgill Simpson song

over

and over,

there's no cause for worry,

I'm just sad and lonely

and his voice sounds the way cotton feels,

like a powder blue hoodie off the back of someone

who cared enough that you seemed

cold.

It's almost over.

No more dragging my feet.

This time last year, I was counting on you

to tend to our son while my family was

grieving.

We were elephants

trumpeting our sadness.

And you, in the night, blanketed by the sound

took shots in the closet, drank beers in the hall.

Your head, dulled and vacant,

assumed that I'd miss this.

Our son, unaware,

slept soundly on your

chest.

Now, one year later, your silence is perfect.

My son does not wonder why you're not around.

He's too busy laughing -

every day, My boy,

laughing.

We watched a documentary once

about the guy that bought

the New York Islanders -

a crook who crooked his way into

buying a team

with no

money.

And at one point, he mentions

the sick behind stalling.

Needing things, any things,

to buy him time.

Just needing to clear the next

24 hours,

again and again and

again.

Today is Monday and I'm reminded of this.

We're like medical bills, or any debt, really.

If you can manage to dodge us long enough,

maybe one day, we'll finally stop calling.

In my own way, I don't mind

the quiet.

I start to do that thing I do

(wonder what you're doing / who)

but not knowing is a peaceful place,

a flat, edged step before the door

where all the shit I get and give

myself from day to stupid day

gets scraped real nice,

not a trace left.

I don't get nothin' anymore, well,

nothin' that I care to say.

Unless you count how many times

I get in my own stupid

way.

Step 10.

Continued to take personal inventory

and when we were wrong

promptly admitted it.

In my tiny closet at work,

I'd started a little art gallery.

Gallery attendants would add little pieces

and, over time, the collage grew.

Our own little art museum.

Gallery attendants came and went,

but their artwork was a fond recalling.

Today, I find it was all thrown away.

In the trash. Trash since taken.

Gone.

Without any, "Hey Brit,

we need you to take this stuff down".

So.

All the working for free

and bending over backwards

meant little against the powers that be.

And I'm not surprised. Or angry.

Just sad.

Dear Herbert,

If you should ever be reading this

years from now.

If you should ever come upon

this mountain of

insanity disguised as poetry's cousin -

Not Poetry.

If you should ever find me here

and like this, I hope

you'll take this series for what it is

and accept that I suck

at grieving.

I found a bunch of old stuff

from 2007/2008.

Old receipts for gear long gone.

A picture from my baptism.

Comics I drew at our favorite bar.

And something like love letters

between me and you.

Another day passes by silently.

I keep the photo of the

baptism.

This series has 72 pages left.

And when it's finished,

I hope I am

too.

Herb says that I worry too much.

With his voice amplified by the

pot on his head,

I reckon he's probably

right.

5 days of silence

for nothing we've done

is about par for the course.

Weeks upon weeks of you missing

these visits,

and someone somewhere

might believe that you

miss us.

My family.

We are mountain climbers

tethered to one rope.

We share shackles and irons

and triumphs and progress

and beauty and bullshit,

but more often beauty.

And I would not trade us

for the world.

The freedom I feel writing these pages

is akin to my favorite way of sleeping -

Bottomless

Bottomless

Bottomless

I know I shouldn't,

but every time I'm overwhelmed

and Herb is screaming

and things are breaking

and we're not sleeping

and there's no hiding

I wonder what it is you're doing.

And the answer -

Whatever you want at all times

springs to mind.

And I laugh.

And no one laughs

with me.

I dreamed her last night.

And it's not that I house

any personal hate

towards her haven't-birthed body

or Cheshire face,

it's that she's cheating off papers

ten years in the shaping

without crying and wondering where you've passed out

without crying and wishing you liked her more than It

without crying and finding

New Meat in your inbox.

A girl who sort of looks like her.

Prettier, of course.

And younger, too.

She's getting all of the answers right

and doesn't wonder so much why you cry watching Arthur,

but moreso, how anyone

could struggle loving

you.

I imagine you there

glued to your phone

when in comes a text from

Whomever.

And there you are

with your quirks at the ready,

thumbs flying for those still

Receptive.

And I guess I don't count as

Fresh Fish anymore.

You need giggles and smiles missing their

Right eye.

And I do things like worry

about how you're getting

around since the grim reaper came

and I text you I worry

but forget the emojis

and sure, I mean well and I'm raising our child,

but love without 😘😍😉

is just not the same.

I feel myself becoming my father,

and that's a noble thing to become

but already, I miss so much time

with my son.

And there's probably a healthy middle but

generations have passed and we still don't know

Where.

The only thing hard work ever got me

was more hard work.

Parade my corpse around, won't you darlings?

I could use a weekend off.

What a strange, nothing place this is.

They take the parts they like from me

and leave me alone the rest.

And it almost feels like being alone.

I could fall in love with this.

He's a gatherer first.

A sifter next.

A disperser after that.

And then he starts all over again.

And I watch as the dirt

catches the wind on an angle

and swirls for a second

before flying back to him.

Sobvious:

/adjective

Easily perceived or understood to be sad.

"How can you say you didn't know what you were getting into when you watched Old Yeller for the first time? It was so sobvious!"

I dreamed you last night.

Your gunny sack nearness.

The weight of your body

like orange-colored putty

pressed and absorbing

the ink off my

own.

I told you I missed you.

You said "so do I".

And when I woke up, I caught my fingers

attempting

to straighten out your silly

curls.

I told you what lapsteels remind me of.

What I see when I hear them

in old country tunes.

That fluidity

pulling,

windswept and sighing.

I realize now it's the same feeling

I get when you're just passing through.

Ooh, look at you

with yourself so figured out.

Love stung me twice

ten years ago.

Will you piss on my leg for me?

I don't know what to say.

The past three days have been

nothing short of unbelievable,

and I don't mean that in any starry-eyed way,

I mean I genuinely can't believe

any of it.

We've been gone nearly a year.

What seemed impossible then

is unstoppable now.

I no longer dwell upon the past.

I used to spend entire days

retracing all my youthful steps,

revisiting my first love's kiss,

remembering the largeness of

the days, and how I used to

fill them.

Now, I sit in silence.

Or,

more often, silence

sits in

me.

9:30PM

Herb: Want some..peetza? Some more peetza?

Me: Pizza??

Herb: Peetza? Piece uh..chocolate? Piece of chocolate??

My son, you are simply the greatest thing

I've ever had the pleasure of viewing

up close.

I don't believe I'll ever be

published

as a standalone poet,

but if I was, I'd want just one

book published

exactly.

Inside you'd find every love song

I ever wrote'cha, darlin.

A hundred songs

long since been sung

in hardback, just in case you felt like

killing me

when you were

done.

Sometimes I feel like air quotes in that

I'm tired of being used

incorrectly.

Sometimes I feel like good judgement in that

I'm tired of not being used

at all.

Sometimes I feel like my debit card in that

I'm tired of being used

so much

when there is nothing left

to use.

Tonight, I feel like a knotted rope

and I want to be used by

someone who knows

how.

Stress, I guess, is like compressed air.

And my body, I guess,

is like a stretchy balloon.

Cept some parts, I guess,

aren't quite as stretchy.

And stress, it seems,

seeks to occupy those parts

first.

My son,

I think we might be stuck.

Stuck and often short on luck.

But stuck with you feels nearer to

inheriting a million bucks!

Stuck with me is a rough gig,

but patience, love,

I know it sucks.

I'm trying though,

I really am.

Reshaping, doing all I can.

For you I vow to be the best,

and hopefully

with time, you'll see

that Stuck with me sucks

a bit

less.

It's amazing you know,

you endure something for ten years

hoping one day it will get better.

And when it starts to get better

it realizes it's too good

to keep someone like you

around.

One hundred days

left in this thing.

I typed 'shit show', but erased it

cause

the squid don't like it when i

curse.

Defense curl.

The kitchen is closed.

I hate every single wunna you.

YOU, not you.

The yous with the tits and big dumb eyes.

The yous with the nonsense and Look At Me viewpoints.

The yous who cannot stand yourselves

and wonder if I feel

the same.

I'm working on reinforcing the steel.

Please pardon

our mess.

They're goin squid fishin today.

And why should I feel jealous

or cornered

or less beautiful than women

who haven't cried over you

yet?

They'll learn, if they get the chance.

Or they won't.

Wouldn't that be somethin.

I'm forgetting how to talk to you.

I'm smudging the line

between us and this and

don't think for a second I

can't discern which is which

it's just

without doubt, I like you here

love you even - 

better times

midnight drives

lips that used to mimic 

mine

but you're drunk on that "I'm Trying" now

and every feather my bird sheds

offends you like you never used to

tell your friends

'crazy [me] just up and left' 

When he would screw up,

I would get sad and angry.

Or just sad.

Or just angry.

And he'd consider that permission to

jump off the nearest cliff,

land dick deep into things he knew

he was going to do anyways.

And I'd hear nothing from him.

And the sadness would melt into fear

and the

anger would boil down to nothing.

And

I'd tell him

I

was sorry.

Now then,

read all that again.

NOW, I'm losing battles against

birds I thought I'd cured.

I am lashing out

and screwing up

and he reacts

the same.

Nobody cares about bitter women.

Nobody is crying trying to understand

me.

I am choking myself out

with anger.

Every day

gritting my teeth.

And he thinks seeking help isn't going to work.

And that's rich

coming from a faceless

alcoholic.

When he wants me,

his stupid misspellings

almost seem like

honest fun.

When he wants me, I answer.

When he needs me, I offer.

When I am forced to understand

that THIS

is a one-way street

I do the obedient thing and I

swallow

everything.

Supposin some guy

might like me more often

than for the 15 minutes

when his beers wax him

romantic.