Brett Boham is 20 years old. So far he has been unsuccessful in his quest to find a pure place from which to write. It seems they've all been taken.

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lost.

I.

the auburn underwear

slides off her pale shoulders

slow and deliberate

hanging, hanging, hanging

in the air for an eternity, before

floating onto the mohair carpet

like the first leaves of november

    (there was i

    and i was young

    with naked feet

    beneath

    the reds

    the yellows

    the greens

    gracefully plummeting

    like suicidal ballerinas

    bouncing off the tire swing

    and onto my airborn shins

    ohhhhh, how lovely!)

her breasts

now liberated like two olympic doves

fly, fly, fly to me

but

exhale and collapse

falling against her chest

like deflated birthday balloons

    (there was i

    and i was nude

    birthed in the dead of a

    winter's midnight

    yet never treated like the

    product of cheap contraceptives

    i celebrated each year

    beside the burning logs

    with helium and white icing)

damn, what is that!

a caterpillar lies crouched

within her crotch

the thin strip is frightening, gross, old

i didn't expect.....

what did i expect?

either way, there it is

like black velcro

staring at me, warning

like a tiny casket

    (there was i

    and i was free

    hanging upside down

    with bared bellybutton

    witnessing auntie's funeral

    lung cancer

    between the monkey bars

    from here, in the park

    across the street

    mom and dad like little statues

    silent, not moving, huddled

    around that black treasure chest

     don't you ever smoke, hear me

    yes, mom, yes, yes)

i wonder where my parents are

who they are

and why does

their disappointment haunt me now

like a two-headed ghost

shaking its bony finger over my shoulder

and are they

responsible for the headlights that

flash and fade through the motel panes

like falling stars

    (there was i

    and i believed

    with glazed eyes

    lying on the asphalt

    amidst the pebbles and pinestraw

    with the universe spread before me

    like a deep blue tablecloth

    witnessing the evaporation

    of entire galaxies

    in a single whisp

    like flaming pinballs, and thinking

     oh how gorgeous, oh how beautiful)

the clock radio

spits and sputters our soundtrack

weak, awkward, unsure

and now for the lovers, a motown classic-

bwum, bwum, bwum, bwum, bwum

oh god no, anything but....

i've been really tryyyin baby

awkward smiles all around

and if you feel like i feel sugah

the air feels pitiful and fake

let's get it on, owwwww, let's get it on

    (there was i

    and i was loved

    embracing

    beneath the crystal ball

    of high school romance

    as marvin gaye sang

    from inside speakers

    i liked her

    and she liked me

    we, dancing to the music

    of a murdered man, and thinking

     oh how wonderful love is!)

i attack

falling like chopped lumber

onto her tired flesh, and

grabbing for something

what should i grab for?

grab and squeeze and fondle

awkward, my hands like flippers

then the kissing, oh god the kissing

tongues with no where to go

rolling over and under

spitting into each other's mouths

like irritated camels

her breath tasting like tartar sauce

salty, sticky

why in the hell

does her breath taste like tartar sauce?

trying to find our positions

we fumble and tumble

damn, what's her name

clumsy, crude

like playing the guitar with broken fingers

    so now i am here

    and i am lost.

II.

GOD!

THIS IS IT!

OH BEAUTY!

OH LOVE!

THIS IS IT!

HEAVEN!

TRANSCENDED!

ENLIGHTENED!

GOD, THIS IS IT!

YES! YES! YES!

    I am a god.

    Hair made of gold.

    Chiseled from marble.

    Impeccable. Perfect.

    Bow before me.

    I am a god.

Pushing the hair away

I look deep into her face.

I am a lover.

Wasn't that wonderful?

I speak with velvet lungs.

Then I see it, in her eyes,

there it is, unmistakable,

god, she looks so.....

completely bored.

damn it

and there i am

the reflection in her reflection

understanding that

with a single thrust

i have released

the essence of eighteen years

replaced by

a thousand things

to be scared of

    i planned on victory

    but i think i've lost.

III.

damn how embarrassing

the bone-colored stain

spreads between the sheets

like electric jelly

is that me?

is that my essence?

staring into the peculiar flower

blooming across the mattress

the years pass

like a funeral procession

i see

    a thousand days

    of leaves and trees

    a thousand nights

    oh, a thousand nights

    bare feet, skinned knees

    red clay, summer breeze

    i see it all

spread across the sheets

white on white

is that me?

is that all?

damn

suddenly

feeling

empty

broken and spilled

sucked and purged

shedding white blood

i have died

and all that i have ever been

is pale crust on a motel mattress

    it was mine

    but now it's lost.

IV.

while tying my laces

she burns the night's regrets

on the tip of a camel light

releasing

the smoke of my future

hanging in the air

like an illustrated void

the nicotine fog

intoxicates my motel purgatory

and i

can i bum a smoke?

balanced somewhere between

apathy

and

monotony

so i'll call ya

gaze upon all that i will ever be

escape from her lips in a single

puff

    now here i will stay

    for i have lost.

Copyright © 2001 by Brett Boham

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