I Have Him In Favorites

“At heart, I am a Muslim,
At heart, I am an American,
At heart, I am a Muslim,
At heart, I am an American Artist
And I have no guilt…”
—Patti Smith

So he only showed up in the online grid every few weeks—
Never a picture, usually just a period dot for the name, no
Stats, no descriptions, literally as small and vanished as he could be
And still be there; he always messaged me first.
He always asked me to send a new selfie.
“What about you”
“I’m not the woman”
I mean, we all come to this a little broken, a little unsure
Of ourselves, of reality; he was just worse than most and
Maybe if someone sat through the text rants and didn’t block him
And sent him a dick pick when demanded, when he really needed
To be crude and blunt—to a man—and listened to him puzzle through
Everything his father said—well, maybe that wouldn’t—couldn’t—can’t—
Be enough, but if it could have been you would have done it, paid it,
Suffered it. Because he can’t help it. Because he deserves a chance
To be someone you deserve and because—most of all—no one has ever
Given him a break on this, all this, this whole secret that’s somehow his
And if what you feel means anything bigger at all then you will give him
That break. That redemption.
(Now, of course, you’re the only one who ever will.)
Well it’s just one more thing—I’m so used to it!—to imagine away, to think
Past: he won’t tell his wife,
He can’t tell his father,
He only actually calls me when he’s drunk,
And all those people at the club, all that blood—
The club where he’d hang out in the corner, drinking,
Where he’d sit and text me about how everyone there has AIDS
Where the CNN reporters found guys to interview, guys who
Were creeped out by him, who chatted and blocked him, guys
Who lost someone they loved that night.
—I lost someone I loved that night, too, but
I guess I don’t want anyone to know, I guess
I just want to remember past to the one time he messaged me
From a hotel, a business trip, said we should get a room
Together, and I teased him and made him send a pic
And it’s just his chest and boxers and I still have it and
Sometimes I can almost believe that it still might happen, that
One night I’ll turn around in a hotel bed and press my ear to that
Softly bristled dark chest in the picture, that I still might have a chance
To wait, to hear his racing heart finally lull to sleep.

Broken Hearts’ Club Midnight Playlist

The secret bonus track from the private reserve edition of my new chapbook:

The Broken Hearts’ Club Midnight Playlist

All The Small Things Blink-182
Surrender Cheap Trick
Sometimes Always The Jesus And Mary Chain
Creep Radiohead
Norwegian Wood The Beatles
Halah Mazzy Star
Flower Duet Lakme (Act I)
Just Like Heaven Dinosaur Jr.
Sweet Emotion Aerosmith
Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks The National
Pacific Coast Highway Sonic Youth
Wild Roses Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions
You Know It’s True Spiritualized

That is all.

Help! My Poor Muse..!

It’s not that my muse has gone missing; it’s that’s she’s been kidnapped by Alison Mosshart and Cecilia Llompart. They’ve tied her up, and are forcing her to do degrading lesbian sex acts until I finish the poem about midnight and/or Siberia and/or anal sex that I started this morning. So I really should finish that poem, before the new essay. My muse really has to pee.

That is all.

More Punk Than Punk

So there will be a Brian Happening today, but wow it’s hard to write. It’s related to a big idea (or a set of big ideas) that I’ve had for awhile; the point of departure I’ve chosen is actually in response to an essay a friend wrote about something Kanye West said. By the way, did you know—Moore’s Law is the most fucking punk rock thing to have ever existed. More coming soon…

That is all.