Hiding Hearts From The Rain

The rain has come, landing softly in silent rhythms. Silently enough to keep us awake at night without anger. We breathe like the rain falls, afraid that the slightest interruption may cause a crack in the sky, or crack our chests open again spilling out our depraved longings for America. So we keep the sheets up to our neck.
The rain can do such a thing to a man and his woman. The way it stirs you up, makes your head crazy until you're sitting cross-legged on your bed, sheets around your waist, looking your lover in her wide eyes, and she is willing to listen to you and love you because you have an idea, a mad introspection, a daring translation of the heart. And so you translate: I miss America terribly. I know a guy back in Ohio, and a way to make some money.
But you've done it before and now you know better. You know not to let the rain speak for you. Nobody really knows a guy in Ohio, and you certainly don't know how to make money.
As for America, the rain will tell you that everyone is having a good time and is moving on in their lives. Everyone is a postcard image, a childhood memory.
But we know now that no one is moving on or is having a good time; they're all crawling like spiders trying to scratch it out from day to day. So when the rain falls silently like this, we tuck into the web we have scratched out for ourselves, and we think of all the rain tucked into all the pockets of the earth and how god-damned crazy everybody will be should we lower the sheets, expose our hearts and crack open the sky.

More Lives Than You'll Ever Know

There is a woman out there who I love dearly. I have said it out loud before, but only when I am close to the floor. It is much easier to squash such a thing when it's that low.
Well, see, I love her now a whole lot. I didn't really before. I mean, I did, but well, I was stupid. I would fuck around a lot. I thought different pussy was always gonna be different. But it always ends up the same. Usually mad at me.
So, as the story goes, I got her sister pregnant.
Did I mention she had--not her sister, but Eilene--has had two abortions for me? Simply because I asked her to, and she loved me. But I didn't really love her, even though I do, but not really at the time. So, ya, I fuck around and I started doing it with her sister. And like I said, her sister gets pregnant. I guess I got one hell of a seed. Christ. Anyhow, I decided the right thing to do would be to tell Eilene.
I brought out the Teacher's whiskey, and I had her sit with me on the floor. We had a few drinks. Maybe six or so. She started telling me that we should probably stop drinking like this. I asked her if she would like to move up to the table. But that wasn't what she meant.
She continued on about how we were killing ourselves or something, and what the hell was on my mind? Just then I remembered this phrase from our little Portuguese phrase book--we used to try to learn one phrase a night. It was under the emergency section.
"Nao ha antidoto para essa vemeno."
So, I said it. My face got sweaty. I guess I panicked. What that means is "there no antidote for this poison."
She slapped my leg like I was playing around. "I love that one! Like, why would anyone ever need that phrase? I'll drink to that," she exclaimed. But that wasn't what I was trying to say. So then I came clean. I told her how I fuck around and got her sister pregnant.
She stood up and over me looking horribly massive and powerful. Then she said with a clenched, low voice, "well, kill it like you killed mine."
I don't know where she is now.
I've been stuck to the floor for a few days. It is easy to squash such a thing when it's that low.

Good Lovers Don't Make Escape Routes

I have been surrounded by lava since I was a child. When I climbed trees, the lava bubbled below. Streams of lava filled sidewalk cracks, so I hopped each one. It sneaked into my house, and slithered through the linoleum. I jumped from couch to chair to chair to kitchen. It quickly found the grooves in the kitchen tiles, and the tiles were tributaries for the burning madness. So, the trick was having an escape route. Out the back door, off the porch, and onto the skateboard. The skateboard to the brick wall, climb the wall and jump to the garage roof. It was easy. I practiced it often.
But my parents were always caught in the kitchen, fighting and screaming. They never made it out of there. They burned up; they drowned. I guess good lovers don't make escape routes. Good lovers try to withstand the heat. They believe their passion to be greater than the elements. They let the lava in thinking it will be a rush, but too often they are violently consumed. Then, they are reincarnated and start climbing trees and jumping cracks as if nothing ever happened.
There are some people who understand what they're dealing with. They don't dive in. Instead, they make little boats and float through it all with the occasional burn. But are they still good lovers? Do they speak to one another at dinner? I hope so.
Since the moment my parents were consumed by lava, I have sailed through it in my little boat from house to house, school to school, car to car, and city to city. I'm in my 15th apartment, 8th city, 4th country and 3rd broken heart. It's conclusive. If good lovers don't make escape routes, I am one of the worst.