This Is the Part of the Story I'd Rather Not Tell by Emily Kagan Trenchard

How at 13 I would lay awake at night deciding
which friend or family member would have to die
so that I might be aggrieved enough to be interesting,
so that I would have the permission to become more
withdrawn and mysterious and thus, more attractive.
I’d lay awake at night, plotting who it should be, how
it should go for the maximum impact. It would have
to be something epic so that I could become a rag doll
in his arms, bury my sweet face in the meaty expanse
of his 13-year-old chest and breathe deep the scent of his
Old Spice for my consolation. My malaise would surely
cause me to lose my appetite, and thus the tragic death
of my loved one would conveniently double as a diet plan.
In the version of the story where a masked gunman
breaks into our school and holds us all hostage, I am
always able to tackle him after he gets off a few
shots. One of them hits me non-fatally in the shoulder
and my current infatuation takes off his shirt to help
staunch the bleeding. I’m not sure how the story proceeds
from there because at this point in my dream I always
began to masturbate. I had determined that certain aunts
and cousins were important, but ultimately non-essential
enough to my daily life to be suitable options. Certain friends
had also been earmarked as acceptable, and I would update
my list with god each evening, playing through the
circumstances of their death and grieving each one with
actual tears so god might see what good choices I had made.
I didn’t want him to think I had cheaped out and picked a
distant relative or a secret enemy to exchange for my love’s
fulfillment. What kind of love would that be, anyway?

When it finally happened, there was no one but the floor
to fall into. Nothing but the gasping choke for my consolation.
I wouldn’t let anyone touch me. The sacrificial loved one?
My best friend with the crooked smile and first kiss around
the corner, her mother who kissed my head like a daughter,
her father who would fetch me midnight bowls of cereal,
her sister, getting ready to start college. The epic disaster?
An exploding plane.
To whom much is given, much is expected.
I no longer speak to god.
I love like I’d kill for it.

Cotton in the Air by Derrick Brown

Your polished back is arched like Saint Louis.
I can see your fingers pushing into the bricks
when I lift your hair
to smell October drain from your neck.

You are cotton caught in the air
I am unfurling laces in your body.

I move on you steady like a fleet of ships pushing ice.
I want to break it all.

Your tank top strap slips down the huh huh huh of your shoulder -
and I will not strain meaning from this.

I have to taste all of your shapes with my teeth.

I am waltzing a wrecking ball.

I am wading in the dark felt Tijuana paintings of your hair.
Molting my bed clothes
uncoiling towards Sahara.

All I want to do is hot lust you
into dead sweat.
To watch your legs, those bent sickles,
to watch them shake
like poisoned wrens.

I am gnashed and dazzled.
Smother me in the exhausted thrust of your yes… .
wet
as all exploding laundromats.

Darling, may I be the image you turn to
when you are heaving alone,
burning like Halloween in Detroit?

I am breathing up your legssssspitting at the hiding nightingale.
Drift your breasts into my mouth
and I will be that doped up, spinning victrola.
La la la la la la.

I want to make love to you while you’re wearing figure skates
until the hardwood floors are toothpicks.

I want to kiss your throat in a dressing room with my hands
bound around the slow song in your voice.

I don’t care if you made that dress, hippie,
I will shred it until you look deserted.

You’re as restless as a New Orleans graveyard in a storm
with the coffins boiling up to the surface.

That’s all this writing is. She is across from me and the
soup is cooking.

I sit up all night listening to her dental records.
I will teach her of exorcism and screw the hell out of her.
I will carry her steam in my mouth.

Daydreaming of the evening of loud struggle.
Call my name—I will cascade like a suicide.
I will fall upon you like a box of fluorescent bulbs
dropped from a five-story building.

I will do anything you ask… .
unless I have been drinking; then it is opposite day.

I can’t believe you can sleep through all this.

Chunks of brick in your fingernails.
Mortar on your pillow
a bomb shelter
sketched on your skirt.
Safe.
It says "safe."

A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me by Derrick Brown

Lying together in the park on Seventh,
our backs smoosh grass and I say
I will love you till I become a child again,
when feeding me and bathing me is no longer romantic,
but rather necessary.

I will love you till there is no till.
Till I die.
And when that electroencephalogram shuts down, baby
that’s when the real lovin’ kicks in.

Forgive me for sounding selfish
but I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you
(albeit a romantic thought for groundhogs,
gophers and the gooey worms).
I will not be able to wait for you…

but I will meet up with you
and here’s where you will find me:
get a pen–

Hold your finger up
(two fingers if your hands are frail by now)
and count two stars directly to the left
of the North American moon.
You will find me there.
You will find me darting behind amazing quasars
Behind flirtatious winks
of bright and blasting boom stars!

Sometimes charging so far into space
the darkness goes blue.
I will be there chasing sound waves
riding them like two-dollar pony ride horses
that have finally broken free and wild.
I will be facing backwards, lying sideways,
no hands, sidesaddle, sometimes standing
sometimes screaming zip zang zowie!
My God, it’s good to be back in space… Where is everybody?

You will recognize my voice.
You will see the flash of a fire trail
burning off the back of me
burning like a gasoline comet kerosene sapphire.
This is my voice.
Don’t look for my body or a ghost.
I’ll resemble more a pilot light than a man now.

I’m sure some will see
this cobalt star white light from earth
and cast me a wish like a wonder bomb.
And I’ll think “Hmmph. people still do that?”

I’m sure I’ll take the light wonder bombs
to the point in the universe
where sound does end.
The back porch of God’s summer home.

It’s so quiet here, you float.
It feels the way cotton candy tastes.

I say to him… why do I call you God?
He says ‘Because Grand Poobah sounds ridiculous.’
(Who knew he was so witty?)
I ask him ‘Lord, so many poets have tried to nail it and missed, what is holy?’

At that moment,
the planets begin to spin and awaken
and large movie screens appear on Mars, Saturn and Venus
each bearing images I have witnessed
and over each and every clip flashes the word holy.

armadillos–holy
magic tricks–holy
cows’ tongues–holy
snowballs upside the head–holy
clumsy first kisses–holy
sneaking into movies–holy
your mother teaching you to slow dance
the fear returning
the fear overcome–holy
eating top ramen on upside-down frisbees
cause it was either plates or more beer–holy
drunk beach cruiser nights–holy
the $5.00 you made in vegas
and the $450.00 you lost–holy
the last time you were nervous holding hands–holy
feeling God at a pool hall but not church–holy
sleeping during your uncle’s memorized dinner prayer–holy
losing your watch in the waves and all that signifies–holy
the day you got to really speak to your father cause the television broke–holy
the day your grandmother told you something meaningful
cause she was dying–holy
the medicine
the hope
the blood
the fear
the trust
the crush
the work
the loss
the love
the test
the birth
the end
the finale
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
in the rebuilt machinery of our hearts

So love, you should know what to look for
and exactly where to go…

Take your time and don’t worry about getting lost.
You’ll find me.
Up there, a finger and two dots away.
If you’re wondering if I’ll still be able to hold you
…I honestly don’t know

But I do know that I could still fall for
a swish of light that comes barreling
and cascading towards me.

It will resemble your sweet definite hands.
The universe will bend.
The planets will bow.
And I will say “Oh, there you are. I been waitin’ for ya. Now we can go.”

And the two pilot lights go zoooooooom
into the black construction paper night

as somewhere else
two other lovers lie down on their backs and say
“What the hell was that?”

My Speech to the Graduating Class by Derrick Brown

I might have written it somewhere else
maybe in another poem
but it might be a nice way to start off this shindig.

You belong everywhere.

The age you are at right now is something you will want back in about ten years.
Try and be less reserved.
Be bold now. Tell her you’ve got a crush, or had a crush and if they make the right face then you still have that crush. It’s OK. She won’t stab your face.

This is a neat time, the age of exploration.
I was a desperate explorer.
I ain’t talking about Robitussin overdoses and turning an apple into a bong.
I am talking exploring limits and setting your boundaries. I am talking about toilet papering someone’s house you love. Ding dong ditching the mayor.
Take a lawn gnome hostage but not chopping it into dust, boundaries. The parents will forgive you. The cops will forget you. You are young and that has value. And the value is $29.95.

Get a journal. You should document this era cause the upcoming changes are shocking. Punks will become political activists in suits. Hippies will become business people for environmental agencies, Skaters will become graphic designers, Football stars will become glow in the dark pastors, Band kids will become ninjas, Cheerleaders will become employees for Cold Stone Creamery. Maybe journal it all cause you will forget. The future will seem so different. Teens in the future are going to listen to carnival music and you’ll say, “…aw back in my day.”

No matter how cool you were at your coolest peak of high school, in 4 years you will look back at photos and say, “Lordy I was a big dork.” You’re not a dork. But you’ll think that. It’s OK. This will give you the rush of humility. This is good. Be proud of how humble you can be.

Some of you are off to college. Screw you.

College is not a passport to success. A passport is not a passport to success.
Delaying self-gratification is.
Learn how to not want it now.
Studies show that the main thing that plagues our generation is that we don’t know how to delay self-gratification. If we can learn to save money, organize a game plan, read, clean up our lives, floss once in a while, then we will rule the world.

You will forget your locker combos, the concept of popularity and the valedictorians speech. You will remember the teachers who cared for you and you will remember being able to eat Taco Bell like an aardvark without barfing up any ants.

You want to be a doctor. You might end up working at Chili’s. At least for awhile. So what? Try the steak fajita pita. You’re working and there is honor in labor.

There are jobs out there you don’t have to hate. You will hate your first few jobs. Pretend it’s a game. Pretend you love hardship. “You want me to stay an extra hour? How about two hours!” Make sure you collect your overtime. Write stuff down.

Let’s not be scared about the future. Let’s be scared about our bodies getting even wonkier and weirder.

The Military is not what they are telling you. It can change you for the better. It can change you for the worse. It will definitely let you shower with many naked people. At once.

The end of high school is not freedom. A soaring, screaming, bald eagle with a cape is.

It is as hard to forget the bad stuff as it is to remember the good stuff. You will forget a lot about this time. Remember the hallway make outs. Forget the wedgies. Most bully’s end up on court TV anyway.

Forget all that crap about the journey not the destination.
Learn how to meet good people, try and remember their names and treat them well.
Die happy if you die surrounded.
You will forget peoples names. Only jerks don’t understand this.

Really cool people don’t know they are cool.

Some people will try to kick your face in. Know when to kick back and know when to tell your friends you punched someone’s foot with your face.

Even drug dealers think users are annoying.

Don’t think about sex more than you have to. Your parents think you don’t ever touch anybody. As far as writing a virginity pact. You don’t need some pact to stay a virgin if that’s your thing. Over 14,000 get busy after the first year of making a virginity pact. A pact or vow does nothing if you are lying to yourself. Also, SEX CAN SCREW YOU UP IF YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TOO EARLY WITH THE WRONG PEOPLE.

A Grad speaker once said wear sunscreen. I would like to add to that. Please don’t use the sunscreen that stays white on your nose. It looks like you cried glue.

Learn something every year or your mind will die at a television altar.

If your friend gets cancer treatment, shave your head.

Young love has about a 20% chance of success. Unless you’re in the South where it is mandatory to get married at 19. Try to not get so broken up about it.

18-21 is a massive change. So is 21-25. Fall in a true love around 25. Date and learn about what you need before that. Kiss with all your might.

Tell strangers nice things about their eyes or clothes. You will change their day.

Some people are drawn to drama. You are not community theater. Fire the actors from your life. Just cause you know someone doesn’t mean you owe them anything. Especially if they’re a tool.

Ladies. Tell men exactly what you want. They are simple creatures. They do not read into things. Take him to dinner.
Gentlemen. Tell her how you feel a lot. Notice details about her and say you noticed it. Ask questions and just listen and hold. Plan things. You still might get it wrong.

Chicks are weird until about 24, 25. Chicks on the wrong birth control or Xanax are even weirder. Trust me on this.

If you don’t know what you want to be, so what. You will fall into something. Just do something or you’re just a grassy little speed bump. You want to be an artist or photographer, or writer? Don’t worry about being good, just begin.

Realize that guilt has guided very smart people in the wrong direction.

Imagine what it is like raising kids. Know that it’s hard. Let your parents know you know this. They may cry. Being alive is expensive and they wanted you more than those fancy romantic vacations. This should make you feel good.

Always have poor friends or acquaintances. It makes the purchasing of luxury automobiles and useless gadgetry ridiculous when people are desperate.

Somewhere, someone is desperate.

Some people aren’t very good at laughing. They will be mad at you. Wonder how they got that way and keep laughing. Maybe not in their face. No one loves a spittle spaz.

Ask old people how they’re doing. The answer will be long. This will help you slow down.

Go to other countries. Not a typical backpacking tour. Planned tour means you will hang with Americans on bikes and flirt with drunk Germans and someone will steal your Levi’s in the hostel and a guy from Poland will sock you in the face while bad techno plays everywhere and you will learn nothing except that your face hurts and not everyone showers. Get into other cultures and talk politics and love. Meeting other people is the only way to know if you believe what you believe cause it’s been handed to you, or if it really rings true in your heart.

Getting lost should be seen as a sweet chance to be found.

Remember, you belong everywhere.

Drown Him by Derrick Brown

I wished I hadn't yelled
at you. I never yell. That
specific brand of drink
made the bullhorn light up.
You were trying to be
funny. I was trying to whisper
in blue siren, in small dynamite,
in crimson teeth. I
thought his throat was dead,
suffocated in the stomach orchids.

It never died. I'm sorry. I'm sorry
my father's anger is mine.
As scared as you looked, this
is as I have always been. I have
been set straight by it. I know
it would happen. I pretend it keeps
dying. how many funerals?

I walk fast at night. Something is
coming. Coming to take me.

I can't have kids. Loud kids.
I don't want to get into bed,
close my ears, and pretend
to die every night, and
pretend it died, every
night, and is finally over.

Our Long Low Nights by Derrick Brown

The poetry class taught me to start strong, end strong.
I am supposed to write down the greatest thing about you,
that I could imagine about you.

We ordered pizza.
We told our friends we couldn’t meet up.
There were cherries and bourbon sauce in the fridge.
You dragged our mattress into the living room.
Turned out all the lights.
Watched an actor try too hard.
The phone didn’t ring.
The commercials were funny.
I ran my fingernails down your arm.
We forgot napkins.

Studied the way the windows make you look at them
instead of out them
when rain gives in.

Nothing was on.
Nothing is on.

The Embrace by Mark Doty

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out--at work maybe?--
having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you--warm brown tea--we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.