Watching him go through it with the worthless cellphone calls where you plan what not to say
And the fucking hang-ups in the middle of the night where silence substitutes for “I’m sorry”
I imagine he struggles with the same horrible rush of bad will & faith
That sin gives you in the long, dark time of one’s soul or after guilty sex
You told me stories of how she couldn’t say she didn’t almost not love you
So much complexity caught up in contractions, maybe a whole sentence missing
Things that sound like “I love you” become “what do you want me to do about it” & even clarity
Seems so distant in the same mechanical din of bad nightclub conversations
Short, staccato, flashing lights & the comfort of bitter seven year-old Scotch
You’re not human until you’ve been so low that anger seems better
An emotion more genuine than the middle of it all, this midpoint
Calculating the median between her & you & coming up with
Awful heartache that sucks out the air, leaving you to invite ugly girls over
Crying on their stomach, lumped & tucked, hand reaching up their shirt
And someone to sleep next to you who doesn’t forget to say goodnight

Then one day you call me late for dinner & tell me that your Iranian barber
Invited you over to his house in Woodland Hills, fired up the cinnamon hooka &
You slammed down Amstel Light while having a staring contest with his pit bull
Talking about fire-breathing all night, slay your demons in this Year Of The Dragon
And this is what building up is, a gradual freedom where the circle breaks open
Frees itself of geometry & becomes the anti-curve
We will become straight lines, dead on, straight shots
Bring the courage back of first kisses when she turns around from looking away
Things to do to feel better include: falling asleep drunk on the beach next to a girl
Forgetting someone’s last name you just met, asking her to go down first
Dancing on the street corner to someone’s music driving by &
Taking a picture of the girl in bed sleeping next to you while her eyes are closed
In the light of a candle burning out on your dresser & illuminating the pile of her clothes
You took off her to Coltrane’s smooth notes & syncopated moves

The challenge of cohabitation that ends in sorrow leaves her with a key to your house
That doesn’t work, doesn’t unlock anything & the more general loss of responsibility
For mathematical proofs, no more bell curve emotions or theories about complementary angles
I bet by now you have your own sad country song running around in your head
Dress down, go out & think about why the world isn’t flat
© Adam Bresson

On May 29, 2009, I read at Rapp Saloon, a reading at the hostel in Santa Monica, CA. I read three pieces: “Broken down plain & busted bridges…”, “The measure of a man is if he can & if he can’t he’ll fall…”, and “You have a spider on your wall…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!

Two buttons up on that vintage shirt collar bought for three dollars at a thrift store in Venice
It was her favorite shirt, the woman of the sun as you declared her, what do you call her now?
We prowl in the evening, getting a fix of cheap wine or expensive beer & all those phone numbers lost
Is paradise lost, jump in the 8 ball, glide to the bar, smile at the girl with the lidded green eyes
Shake the hand of the bartender like you would take one finger, win hearts before minds man
Turn your rage into coffee at 2:45AM Thursday morning, hash browns degrading, eggs radioactive

Two buttons down on that Banana Republic shirt The Alchemist bought with you
On a single, solitary Sunday that you remember the sunshine set scene solidified
Your need to forget last names, concentrate on defining features, remember their lips
Is remembering the kiss you stole from her & her boyfriend-to-be right before you crumpled her number
Friends like you are definitely good for so many things like heartline racing through Santa Monica stoplights
And turning up your mouth in a short smile from across the table because she grabbed your dick

Eric was lucky he could keep his body upright, tight & lean with a head bigger than for whatever body
His Southern parents trying to get the south out left him & the scar across his abdomen like the red raised
Tail of Haley’s Comet came around every time he took off his shirt to sweat
There are dead canary yellow road lines that you treat as suggestions after too many Duvels
Phrases written in crashed letters on bar napkins that hold your big ideas
And temperance when sleeping, judgment when fucking & phone numbers that add up to twenty

Dave dropped most of his good Midwestern boy values when he saw Santa Monica’s short skirts
Suntan lotion sweat, spray-on-tans sprayed on spray-on-tans & other damning sunny day thoughts
Such as taking her picture with your black clamshell Motorola phone to send to your brother in Kansas
There are email addresses that are too hot or profane to tell your parents about
False choices such as taking off the shirt/bra before the skirt/underwear
And late nights you decided not to sleep, close kisses kept closer than your tongue, next day bruises

Two buttons up as you fix your collar & pick the food out of your teeth with a packet of refined sugar
One day, you will make snow angels in the dangerous sands of a Malibu beach
With a girl who will call herself your wife before you get married, drive your car but in Matchstick Red
Had given up smoking long ago for good sex, does the crossword puzzle in Spanish
Says her dreams make shapes in her head & she remembers them because of the theorems they complete

Two buttons down as you hold your beliefs above your conscience, being wrong is such a letdown
One day, your daughter will smell like grade school clay & patchouli
You will brush her hair twenty times in both directions for more afternoons than you can count
The first time she says “Daddy” you will cry exactly three tears, hug your wife, kiss their ears
Rub your ear lobes having taken in the most beautiful second act of your valorous lifetime

When looking back on the semiotics of summer I know what we’ll say:
What a fantastic ladder made out of pool chairs, powerful as the bones of an exoskeleton
Two bottles of $2 wine, Pizza Hut pizza & Bukowski, eating & drinking everything around
It was a Chinese midget in a red t-shirt freaking a full-size woman, I swear to God
And all of these would mean THAT summer, would mean the coming of the Unholy Trinity
Would mean friendships that last longer than bodies
© Adam Bresson

On October 29, 2008, I read at Velvet Guerilla Cabaret, Michael Slobotzky’s reading at Unurban Coffeehouse in Santa Monica, CA. I read two pieces: “Two buttons up…” and “A box full of things…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!