I just applied for a job 

As Italian Ads Quality Rater

With Google

Is that weird?

It might be fun.

But I know,

Advertisement

Is evil.

My ex wants me

To be his friend.

Is that reasonable?

Maybe.

Google is watching 

My every move now,

Like Sting in that stalkerish

Song.

Hello sir,

Please don’t stare at me.

I am a very good employee

And school is expensive.

Jim and I talked today.

He took off suddenly

When I started talking about

Loans,

Debts.

I know I deserve a scholarship

More than friendship.

I don’t know

What a friend is.

I keep doing things 

I later regret.

For example,

Why do I keep

All those receipts?

My drawers are exploding.

I never keep track

Of my expenses anyway.

(Hello lady-from-the-foundation-that-might-give-me-a-grant:

Don’t worry,

This is all fiction.)

Why do I

Sign up for 

All those newsletters?

I must black out 

When I’m on the internet.

There are 17,566

Unread messages

In my inbox,

None of them from

Actual human beings.

If you have two hands and a heart

You should write to me.

I’d rather read your letters

Than work

On fucking presentations.

Everybody is doing the same thing.

Three out of three strangers

That contacted me on OkCupid 

Got a new job today

And four people I know

Including me

Broke up with their partners

Twenty days ago.

Are these the first signs

Of the impending apocalypse?

Or is it just about pheromones,

Like when women live together

And their cycles coincide?

Maybe I should live in a loft

With a bunch of ladies.

We could build a sauna,

Exfoliate each other’s skin.

When the time comes,

Brew PMS tea,

Wrap ourselves in snuggies.

It sounds much better

than my current life.

As I ride my bike

After yoga

I find myself singing

Police songs

About loss.

I’m amazed at how convincing

A bunch of rich bleached Brits*

Can sound

About loneliness, despair

And feeling goofy and inadequate.

I guess you can feel that way

Even if you play like a god.

The music never loses its energy,

I always dance to it when tidying up my room.

I had never suspected

The lyrics were sad

When I didn’t speak English.

I guess goofiness

Is no excuse

For not starting a band,

Wielding my bass like a weapon,

Turning whining into song.

*I know, Stewart Copeland is Ammmerrrican. Will you ever forgive me? For the shape I'm in. For the shape I'm in.

Still mourning

The end of tenderness

I went to the Conservatory.

I saw some lovely

Mexican walking fish

Drew fishtail ferns

Talked to a soft-spoken rock star

Who is also a programmer 

And a bartender.

Waiting for my bus I couldn’t breathe:

I never had a problem in New York

But here it’s different.

In Garfield Park

Drivers turn their heads 

To look at you,

They stop their cars suddenly,

While you pretend to be busy with your phone.

Nonetheless,

I made it back home,

Wore my new glasses,

Learned a new Max MSP patch,

Made myself some pasta.

I order a yoga mat.

I forget about it,

And get excited when I see a new e-mail.

It’s just the auto-confirm message

From Amazon.

Today I checked my gmail account

Three hundred times

Hoping in somebody’s cheerful words,

Anybody’s.

I haven’t felt this lonely in years 

But I just forget.

I must have been far more lonely than this

In the past.

And survived.

How?

It’s never pretty.

I do

and say

things I will regret

When my brain works again.

I want to get small

Like a wooden doll

And sleep peacefully inside my maker’s hand.

You are gone

But I don’t know what it means

Yet

So I sit in the chair you used to sit on.

I wait

For it to hit me,

The sharp pain,

As opposed to this numbing sadness.

I wait for the obvious,

My eyes are ready.

But what happens is that

The landlord storms in to use the microwave,

Whistling.

His kid upstairs is making kid sounds.

I am robbed of my catharsis.

I go back to my desk,

Where it’s colder.

I will let go 

Until there is nothing left

Anywhere

To cling to.

Don’t believe the Spring.