Statistically speaking we are some grand, terrifying percentage of doomed.

Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing
Besides this.
Tomorrow already started.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws his blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon just tells you to call me.

Call this,
Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of man-
For my grandfather’s apartment.
In many ways the ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a ticket across an old man’s memory.

Proud old men
Still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Spread lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
Though, less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions still die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
The average mileage between their bones
Was 125.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
We divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess at what sort you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked.
Should my insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations.
As they are both inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7-day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
I found several hilarious bits of propaganda attempting to argue,
That, evidently, when God was done sculpting
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone.
He took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
The 7-day week began with the religious significance all of us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late to stare my way.
Perhaps she also misses New York City.
Or she likes the way you slant toward slumber
Yet, you wait for her to leave.

Every morning I ask you to tell me what the birds say.

You see.
This came from my grandfather.
I’ve never told anyone this before.
Before my grandmother,
There was her.

War breaks hearts and lungs
Reminds men that they, too, need oxygen.
There was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So,
She gave him Sunday.

When he died,
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just corroding away in my pocket.

I’ve been thinking.
It suits you.
So, if you’d like,
You may have it.

On Tue, May 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM, wrote:
Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing.
Tomorrow morning has already begun.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws a blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon will just tell you to call me.

Call this, Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of love-
for my grandfather’s apartment.
The ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a plane ticket across and old man’s memory.

Proud old men still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

You may have it. If you’d like.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Are spreading lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
and less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
the average distance between their bones
was 125 miles.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
To divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess what kind you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked,
Should my
Insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations
because they are inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7 day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
several hilarious articles attempt to argue
That when God was done with
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone
Evidently, he took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
the 7-day week began with the religious significance all us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late just to look at me. How you wait for her to leave.

I never mentioned this,
But there was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So she gave him Sunday.
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just sitting here rusting in my pocket.
It suits you.
If you’d like,
You may have it.

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Let me tell you a story of

Starvation as prayer.

Nest of negative space
Home built upon fault lines.
Floor plans
Of the empty spaces on her.
Ever expanding, renovated.
Construction permit written in lipstick.
Bones
Grown wasted.
Warped with winters only known by time.
Saturated in longing.
Wooden doors no longer close properly.
Locks long parted from skeleton key.

A slow reduction of her fruit
Simmered with sugar over low flame
Ever present threat of burn.

Escoffier never translated
Carême’s recipe for
How to not love the wrong ones.
She’s at a loss,
Contemplating the consequence
of her weak American heart.

The Baumé of her blood.

Inverted. Caramelized
Maillard reaction of soul
in the presence of protein.
and flame.

Dispersed in solvent of poem.
Osmosis of ache and oxygen.

Hidden. Rhizomatic.
(These blooms lie.
Ask her, instead,
of what lives beneath the soil of her story.)

Medical chart diagnosis:
Love-letter induced delusion.
Prescription for
human contact and/or casual sex
recommended.
(Though, insurance will likely not cover cost of plane ticket, options limited)
Grief of love not yet lost.
Grief of something not love,
Just, not.

Dissolving her own skin.
Flesh eating fit of numb.
Less of her left to miss him.

When the shop owner asked
Where she went.
She meant the unnecessary parts of the girl.
The hips. The breasts.
Stores of energy carelessly spent.

The girl answered,

Amsterdam?
Or something.
Lost in transit by a Dutch mailman.
Floating somewhere in an ocean.

Washing up on the sand at Coney Island.