Elaine Cameron

The tiny lift of a t-shirt
held upright to reveal the space
where the skin looks
cotton childlike,
and far too good
for any of my thoughts.

-and thankfully you can't possibly
become too much of a crowd, or vexation,
as the youth of you sheds
my well of reservation,

and once again you are the outline
of the pre-sunrise,

and of all my post-beliefs,

as you alone are far too good
for almost anything that I would ask,
or take.

After a three-hour drive through the desert,
The stench of dead fish
Slammed into the side of my truck
And we pulled over.
The sun-baked bones crunched beneath our feet
As we walked to the shore.
Jeremy picked up a stick
And poked around at all the washed-up skeletons.
I had visions of ancient plagues awakening,
But I didn't hold my breath
Or keep my hands to myself.
As I watched the giant birds hovering
Close above the surface of the water,
I would have felt positively prehistoric
If I hadn't been wearing my drag-queen sunhat
I'd bought in Palm Springs for nine dollars the night before.

The highlight of my trip to Palm Springs
Was sitting in the bed of a Motel 6 watching The Travel Channel,
Imagining I was somewhere else.
There wasn't any amount of alcohol
That could have gotten me to enjoy
A night spent at a Palm Springs karaoke bar on a holiday weekend.

But if enduring the heat and the hell of it
Was what it took to find
Those solemn surprises on the following day,
I can't say for certain that I won't be the one singing
U2 and Motley Crue from a beer-drenched stage
The next time I visit.

Now -
Locked tight each night
In this new house by the beach,

She closes her mouth around
The sound of his name as it rises,

Swallowing the view of the tide
Each morning,
The frenzy 
Of the birds in flight.
Finding feathers and sand
Between the blankets.
Finding the time or killing it,
But never wasting a drop.

Preserving the present even before it's captured,
Walking towards the coastline,
To where the headboard meets the wall,
She took his name to the edge.
With her until the end.
She took it to the amen.

I learned the lesson long ago,
When my piano teacher made me
Repeat those aimless arpeggios :

"There's no way to recover
From going one half step in the wrong direction."

He feels no need to run from the assembly of strip malls.
The monochrome storefronts present no threat.

"But don't you ever want to make a getaway?
 To bolt towards whim
 And to will your revelations?"

He claims that he gets all the escape he needs
While practicing his bass
In his parent's garage.

"I went to Fisherman's Wharf once.
 I had some clam chowder and some sourdough from Boudin Bakery.
 Fuck that place."

Erin was right: Nothing good comes out of San Francisco.

"I get better soup and bread
from Denny's at 2am."

I can't say that he and I have formed a connection,
But the moment was not without a certain wistfulness.

A long-winded drive
Through his distinctive and pitch-perfect suburbia.

A new night.
The Pacific Ocean, Creased and Coarse-
Algae wrapped around the ankles-
Shells draped and limbs across the Honda Civic seats-
The world was folded and warm,
But maybe that's just how things look
Through a half bottle of expired cough syrup.

Finally. A new night.
I met a man who had analogies for everything.
He held me beside
-Continents
    -Four doors 
           -Steamed milk 
                          -Seaweed.

many nights trying to be here and there
and this and that and that

while in truth most 3am cab rides aren't worth the money.
(but some are.
 but some of them were.)

being called upon again to find
the Tylenol in the dark-
or the hand - or the warmth beneath
the this or the that and that.

we were always willing
to resume our search for the angels
and the heroes
hiding here or there
somewhere between the phone calls and the wine.

When it almost hit 90 degrees
I went into an old Catholic Church to escape the heat.
My thighs stuck to the bench
And I bowed my head to watch them sweat.

"Always remember what you're grateful for."
(The durability of rayon against humidity).

And everything ended because I was arrogant.
 Because I am arrogant.
I just can't live between the commas or beneath the sheets.

-7am.
I won't ask him any questions yet.
It's not the time for self reflection.
He hasn't even applied his shaving cream or put on his boots.
I've memorized the order of our events.

"Because you were born buried
beneath six deep feet of Romanticism,
and if you fail to find
that place worth dying for,
you'll settle
into the first place that kills you."

When I was twenty-five years old
We lined our nights with arguments
Over what to eat for dinner.
In May you moved to the East Coast and
In June I was left alone with nothing
But a king-size bag of peanut M&M's
And medicinal ginger tea.
When October came around I decided
It was time to leave.
My dad helped me pile my stuff into the back of the car.
I took one last look around
Before I lost my balance
And retrogressed my way back down the 101.
The Ventura freeway provided a sentimentality I was
Convinced I'd been looking forward to.

And I'm told it's very beautiful around Santa Barbara,
Out  where the ocean opens up and the hills
Turn green again.
"We've reached the home stretch."
And I'm told we're pulling the car into the driveway again,
And that I'm home again home again.
And that the phone will ring and the cats will meow.
There are new countertops in the kitchen, I'm told,
And that here I am again.

But by the time I'm twenty-six I'll become a fan of
Virgin America airlines:
Their seats will be comfortable, the boarding process will be quick,
And every few months they'll fly me safely to New York, where
You and I can line our nights again with arguments
Over where to go for dinner.


I know where home is.
No one lives there.

"I'm done." she said as she shoved
her tray to the edge of the table.

(she's done, and you know
 she isn't talking about
 chow mein.)

In the Glendale Galleria
she pushed the food court
to its wits end.
Two years of memorizing
the marks on the ceiling,
and finally she's finished.

(though waiting at night, still, for the
     - quivering - quaking - pulsation...
-((for the throb of a phone call
 positioned in the place
where she no longer holds her horses. )))

In the center of his sleep
he pulled her closer to him
by a fistful of hair.

Rest never comes easily in an unfamiliar apartment
where the subzero air conditioner turns gray blankets
blue,
but she was content to balance
her new life on the edge of his familiar moments -
where even the things he wont remember in the morning
were reason enough to dream big.

I waited for you.
And I walked around all day, waiting.
I ate black and white cookies,
And I walked and wasted,
And I welcomed myself back
to this postlapsarian city:

"You'll never find love in L.A. my friend,
But you'll have a Hollywood ending nonetheless.
You'll rehearse your spontaneity.
You'll die an early death."

I somehow stuck around here
Without ever stopping.

A decision was made to go back in time.
Though looking at things from a certain angle,
where the tonic and tequila don't mix-
and the slippery rooftop attack
causes no panic.

I store these strangers in a safe place,
without which, who's to blame? ---
I stockpile these strangers;
I sustain their weight.

   : I offer you the driftwood of men
    who thought there was
    something here to be taken.
    But there was nothing here.
    Nothing either to be given freely
    or stolen. :

These icy hands on a new roof -
brushing over the knowledge
of a scar kept well hidden.

***
Asking the question
through a drunken late night.

He was too much asleep always and
too much always at arms length -
with hands clasped in a real attempt at
becoming better than what we'd been.

***

He was good for me.
He only killed the part of me that wanted to die.
Whether or not I'd be happy in life
wasn't necessary to ponder as
a mouth on the
back of my neck
so always warm and
etc., etc., etc.
until morning.

And I woke up to a hot, hot night.

Sheets sticking to my body.

I thought my dreams were polaroids
snapping all around me.

She started drinking wine after she gave birth to her second child.
"I couldn't sleep. It wasn't depression...It was just hard."

One night she left her children with her husband
and went to stay over at her parent's house.
They shared some drinks,
played some rummy,
and talked about life.

That night she claims to have slept like a baby.
I imagine she even woke up a few times,
crying.

With 7am sitcoms and the
hands stuck safe in the
softest space-
Silence can no longer preserve
my favorite morning.

I want to resurrect the
alarm clock I knocked from your shelf,
but the timing was never right for us anyway.

I knew Melanie for only eight months in 2003.
The last time I really saw her
Was when we went camping together at Big Sur.
I sat beside her all night,
Trying to sing along to all the songs I'd never heard.
I think she only actually knew
Three chords on that guitar,
But when she woke up in the morning
Her fingertips had earned an edge.
That day we went to the beach 
And climbed some sand dunes.
We still managed to reach a high point,
Even though the wind was blowing so hard for us we'd had to keep our
Eyes closed the entire time.

In a small dose of
-takeoffs and landings,
injected directly-
there's not enough space to
be my best.
But I try to shut my blinds and
end up tearing the beam from the wall.
And I'm not saying I miss you,
because I like being alone,
and wandering where
strange things are happening.