to the tunes of: how great thou art, material girl, running up that hill, and silent night, in no order and sometimes overlapping. imagine the overture of 1812 in the background, but turn the volume down when the cannons fire. these aren't that type of music.

I.

i guess i have loads of lenten regret. what i mean is i always liked going to church in the afternoon. the building’s different in late sun, golden light shooting through jesus’ eyes and settling on the head of every congregant. i remember in california the church was always damp and bone cold, even in blazing summers, and walking through the doors was like a benediction. a blast of cool air. i remember i didn’t like sweat, didn’t like how it clung shiny to my young arms, but i remember the cold church air rippling down my skin and every time how transforming.

i guess it’s weird that entering the church was a positive sensation. it was never a place for me. i remember more than one summer night, warm black punctured by lampposts, on the basketball court, they’d taunt me because i was gay. the kids. i was 13 i tried to ignore them i couldn’t. i guess my only question was how did they know? as if their young eyes could worm their ways into my desire. and condemn it. as if they knew better than i did the parts of myself i tried to deny. i am not often uncomfortable but i was when i was 13.

i guess i would’ve liked lent then. our church was strict but no religious ritual. no ash. no cross on a gleaming head. i would’ve liked people lined up and down the aisle, slowly marching to solemn organ. the first time i had an ash wednesday it was just about the most transcendent i’ve ever felt at a religious service. and i couldn’t help but think how much it would’ve meant when i was 13. maybe my wide blue eyes would’ve swum, maybe the gritty ash would’ve changed something. maybe i would’ve gone home and written a poem. maybe i would’ve walked, quickly, to my room, laid on my green quilt, and stared at the ceiling, and cried. i never cry anymore. maybe the ash would drift down to sooty puddles on my cheeks maybe i could’ve scooped the mud off my face and sculpted something. maybe before it dissolved back into the air i could hold it for a second and know that whatever i was, it was too. 

II. 

It was hard to believe that your tire actually fell off, just detached while you were driving, but you sent photos and we couldn’t deny the pixelated evidence. Side of the highway, aluminum elephant heaving, the whole car knelt on a rusted rotor. Weird, I thought, after we knew you were okay. Flashing along the highway, maybe Britney Spears through tinny speakers, Oh, baby, baby, how was I supposed to know, and eating roasted peanuts, weird that a casual Sunday can collapse all over you. You said it grated, for a moment, against the concrete, and it was shocking. I imagined rattling lugnuts plunking to ground, a rubber Goodyear spinning off into the shoulder. In my mind’s eye it doesn’t stop. Maybe the stray tire slams against the concrete divider, but it then collects itself, aligns with the flow of traffic, and rockets down the highway, solo, propelled by sheer will and all the ghosts of sun-baked tires with tall grass through the center. Propelled south. I’d expect a lonely wheel to gravitate toward warmth. You said you looked for the tire that fell off for hours, even turned over a pile of them by the side of the highway, exposing their slimy underbellies, and a cockroach or two scurried out but you couldn’t find yours. Imagine by now it’s all the way to Florida.

III. 

i drank the kool aid the other day. it was nice. it made my tongue red and we all laughed about it like in one of those indie movies when everyone is leering around the camera [and woofing] and the sun is ice blue and everything is spiky even hair. [maybe it was a dream? in which case i apologize.] the members’ lounge has jazz just the right volume. why even write the quick words down when you could spend the time listening. i mad a pair of charles ives jeans with a substance-inspired stitch and the man was trying to interrupt. i didn’t let him. actually, i was very funny it was a good time. it was all a good time. everybody has a good time and nobody in the world knows. ok, i’ll run for president. ok, i’ll make fun of your poetry. ok, i’ll watch the sun till it turns red [at noon] and everyone falls off these desks, these desks that rock back and forth. philip glass is ira’s cousin. philip glass does not make real music. philip glass could die [in a flashing arcade] and we could all sit around a cold fire and sing and sing and sing.

IV. 

i don’t write many poems but i often travel in my car that makes a funny noise sometimes. sometimes you rev it and it groans a little. sometimes you turn the wheel and it clicks. but so far, so good, and i figure it’ll be fine if i drive it until it falls apart. until i have to crouch by the highway and pick up the fallen pieces of the thing. probably hot sun beating through my shirt. i might scrape a piece of metal against my leg when i’m puzzling the auto back together. blood might drip onto the ground there on the side of the road. i might crouch and leave my leg alone and watch the bloody stream mingle with sweat and trickle down my leg and back into the earth, until it scabs, until the vehicles stop screeching up and down the highway, until my car gets it together and inhales and allows me back inside, until everything fixes itself and moves the fuck along.