In me. I spend the day sorting
Other people’s clothes and come
Home to find seeds scattered
Across the carpet, seeds in the walls
And ceiling fan.
I live in the wet smell of old things.
Seeds in the basement and attic.
Burnt little seeds in the black
Plastic bags under my eyes.
of himself anymore. Numb patches
from the bugs.
He’s gotta take the hurt first,
and show us how
bad it really is.
I DON’T KNOW WHERE THESE QUOTES ARE FROM
Sure, it’s just a man’s name, right?
Do you wanna be right or do you wanna be married?
MY LIFE ONLY MOVES IN ONE DIRECTION AND THAT’S FORWARD!
Last time I was in Chicago, one of my old friends kept avoiding me. I got the feeling he’d outgrown me. I recognize the ways in which I’m outgrowable.
A disheveled black man asks me if I like to get high. I say no instinctively, even though I do, in fact, like getting high. He asks my name. He says:
“You should be getting all the pussy in the motherfucking world with a name like that.”
“I totally agree with you,” I tell him.
“Talking ‘bout my name is Charents!”
I recognize the ways in which I’m outgrowable. And yet, I’m suspicious of the outgrowers. The careful measurers of life.
My mom always talks about how bad I was at sharing when I was a kid. She tells the story of how I inhaled a tiramisu we’d agreed to share.
My dad says, “If Charents likes something, he won’t stop until it’s gone. The chocolate on the table disappears.”
Have I treated people the same way? Do I inhale love and attention in case someone tries to snatch it up?
This was supposed to be a poem. Now it’s gone stale.
Poetry is useless. Dentistry is useless. Promises are useless. I don’t feel like dust or that I’ll return to anything.
[POETRY]
[07/18/25]
[07/18/25]