pocket pet

I dream of you in daze
Into nights when I see you
And I’m reminded of the
Familiar fear of never worrying – 
I’m used to worry: 
It’s a pocket pet I’ve fed over the years
With years
And stamps 
It’s a 
A Bracketed lapse in living
Where I see the known ways I could hurt 
You, possible even 
Break you
End us Tear away the familiarity and turn it
Into shadow.   

I worry.   

There’s many ways I’ve gone about it
Many ways repeated
Many more ready for another run.   

I could sleep with another man. 
Perhaps a friend
Or worse a foe
Get you to worry our one on one’s got us 
Turned on you, Us
Knowing more now of the more of you
You chose to give us
I’ve done that.   

I could do ayahuasca in a suite in New Orleans
Northernmost city of the Caribbean
Seeing all the alien Gods
Or the insides of my coffin
Both the box I’m in but also the body that I am
And see what needs feeding then
‘Not you’ ‘No you don’t supply’
I’ll return to Beachwood and sit in my chair 
And ghost you into phantom yesteryear
Yeah, I’ve done that too.   

I could love you only when I’m pistol-
Ready, Bulleit made, foggy-brained
And say it till it’s obvious and 
And text you after that I’m gonna 
Marry you
And drunken-drive to you with 
Twenty dollars worth of dollar Del Taco 
And make you watch 
Videos of 
Or Stevie and pass out and half cum in the Morning
slowly over time
Mistaken hangover for you and loving you the most and
Decide that I need re-centering and
Distance (but never from the bottle) 
And worse! –
That all of it was only what had ‘happened in the night’
That’s been me.   

I could touch you.   

Shit that was the other one, no
You like it when I’m holding onto us –  

I could hit you.   

Worse, I could say the things a person isn’t allowed to say
The dagger proclamation
Of my silver-tongued knife
Wielded by this Monkey on my back I’ve 
Forgotten about otherwise 
And once it’s in you I’ll twist 
That’s all been me, too.   

I could be an executive at a studio
Sign on your mortal enemy 
The Nemesis 
In spite of you –
Get him two seasons 
About how he’s misunderstood but 
Still molests at Akbar or the Dome
Going buddy-buddy with him to dinners
Or at your favorite spots
Karaoke singsong, songs about paninis 
Or Pre-teen demigods who think 
They’re bad guys. 
And I’ll play nice with you
Because it gets you going
Gets me ahead
Always nice
Nice nice nice
You hate nice
‘boy, can’t that betray a soul?’ you say
Yes sir, I agree –
Edit: No, I probably wouldn’t go that far. 
I don’t know that I’m even capable
Keep it, as they say.   

I could keep believing what I fear is true
The spring of all my doubts that
I am
Not good. 
Particularly at being good which is
Different than just good enough for you
I worry.   

There’s a lot of things I wouldn’t do
A lot of things I’m incapable of
Maybe even
Tired of trying?
Getting away with. 
Weak-kneed but in the stomach with dry eyes
The galivanting
And the schmoozing 
I just want home already I worry. 
But also
Maybe there’s also something there? 
In that? 
In that
I dunno
You know me better sometimes
You’re the one who reads me
Has to see me I’m just living ‘me’
Think it, will you  

West elm sofas. A loveseat. 
Something local for a coffee table. 
Dinner in general 
Memberships to Wagville
Never Disney+
The movies you’ve wanted to show me. 
The words I’ve wanted you to know. 
Maybe the place has a bathtub. 
Two bed. 
Luxury tomb. 
Patio parties and proud soirees and
Top shelf liquor with that CVS discount
Cluttered glove compartment stuffed with receipt scarves. 
A little less drinking
Maybe at the start at least until doors 
Close more
And I’m working when you’re watching
Or I’m watching while you’re gone
And it all goes back to what it used to be 
Before we promised something new
I worry.   

For when it’s done and the dog is 
passed and stuffed 
makes a doorstop and you’re
Thinking Hancock Park or Paris and I’m thinking New York, Brooklyn or dead
A love is a lifetime I worry.   


What if something happens 
Something different dare I say
Something weird that could happen
Doesn’t happen
I don’t see 
To me
But just me I haven’t thought of us that way –   

What if we grow old together? 
There go promised memories of your
Hand holding mine
Scratching the back of your head
But now –
A forever-adding flipbook –
Our same hands
But with new spots Thinner skin. 
Closer every day towards our Wither Away
The chances of who will fade from us
For to die alone is to go in peace
But in the arms of a lover, their forever agony. 
Is all of that worse? 
Is to love to know what will be lost? 
Is it to hold it regardless of these
Boundaries in time,
Angelino mountains,
And drown our lungs in the vapor of now?

Of-fucking-course it is.

I worry.