what we have here is

Poems are supposed to be written without

I or You,

with a few exceptions, those rare times

I calls upon You,

placing You at the very start of strings of

chrysanthemums verdant valleys

soft snowfalls flickering flames and light,

clean light, that You obscure, all while I is understood,

or meant to be.

But I believe, though not self-centered,

that I am and must be at the center, unavoidable

as I sit here backwards on a stolen swivel chair

in a windowless office between men’s and women’s,

Charlie Parker mingling with nature calling

hall-pacers glancing as I plow through the sound of  

words clicking out reassuring resounding that I

will someday move beyond these four white walls only

to find that it was their constant blank terror

that squeezed these paltry words from

is when I am in a traffic jam. Why is that?

It's not as if knowing there's 20 minutes of 'slow-go' from Vine to Packer will make me get through it any more quickly.

On second thought, the news I consume is mostly unavoidable facts. Weather, politics, crime- it's like your doctor breaking the worst news, but still, some part of you wants to hear it.  

Anton Levchenko, several collection agencies would like to speak (firmly) with you. 

At the age of seventeen, in a Catholic high school, it was not difficult for me to fall in love, or at least infatuation, with the young women that graced the halls in plaid skirts. When a particular one from Australia sat near me in Religion(guess which one?) class, then read out loud, I didn't stand a chance. It wasn't just her accent, it was the way she stood and spoke, both proud and terrified at her voice filling a room of thirty unknown faces.

We were both pale with black hair, but the physical opposites that truly attracted me (besides the typical areas you'd expect a teenage boy to notice) were her luminous blue eyes. Strands of hair were continually falling across the right one, which she would let build to an opaque sheet before lifting or shaking it away.

We actually did end up in a relationship, sparked in typical awkward teenage fashion in the darkened cafeteria of a school dance. From there, things got strange. Her insanely protective younger brother tried his hardest to injure my brain with a thoroughly padded volleyball during gym class.

Our dates consisted exclusively of seeing movies, which her parents dropped her off at and picked her up from, expecting me to do many evil things in the five minutes between her house and the theater. She also signed her texts "love, her name, xoxoxo" which terrified me initially. I did realize it was how all her texts to everyone ended, unless she was mad at me, which occurred frequently. 

But on to why I'm traipsing down a memory lane fraught with embarrassment. I was talking to a friend in the library, going on and on about how beautiful I found my girlfriend to be. Then this happens:

'You know her eyes are fake, right?'

(blank stare)

'She wears color contacts.'

This friend of mine, by the way, had beautiful eyes of her own, arresting and distinct, somehow blue and steel at once. So I believe she shared my feeling that color contacts were not just cosmetic, but cheating, a lie, really. Fake.

After our breakup, which really constituted about half the relationship, I returned to this idea. I had asked her about the contacts and she told me she didn't like her natural eye color. I told her I would like it. It was brown, like mine.

Besides the obvious issue of depriving a high school senior of the chance to put Brown-eyed Girl on a mix for his girlfriend, I took these contacts as a metaphor indicative of our entire relationship. There was always a cool blue film between us. We tried to show only our best-manufactured sides, leaving us playing as inept actors cast for too-large roles, worse than Tim Allen in The Santa Clause 3 (yes, we actually saw this together. Like I said, infatuated).

But now I'm not sure how to evaluate the things we add to ourselves. Everyone tries to project an idealized self, at least to the extent their budgets allow it. After listening to a couple friends/acquaintances comment on every outfit that passed, I told one:

'you care too much about things'

which she disputed. I continued, saying they were judging people based on how skinny their pants were. The person I knew least well responded:

'well you have to judge people on something.'

"Asshole" is the word that flew to my mind, 'Seriously??' from my lips. This interaction, and many like it, have made me to be wary of hipsters, which this fellow unapologetically was. It's not the appearance that troubles me- I'll admit I'm more drawn to plaid or vintage than pastels and patterned pants. 

It's the pride, it's the substitution of objects for personality. And yet, I must admit that I play along, I judge these people attempting to be awesome by dressing in a uniform alt way, much as I took color contacts to be revealing of a dishonest person.

I cannot deny that the things we adorn ourselves with have the potential to say something about us and mean something to others. Especially as a person with tattoos. I just generally care more about where those legs inside the skinny jeans have been and are going, how the eye beneath the lens appreciates each moment.

But can we ignore appearances, or are they inextricably tied to our ideas of self and Other?

After watching my neighbor's dog for a week, I acquired the habit of nighttime walks. It's not quite the same without someone along to pee on everything, then beam proudly up at you, but I left my apartment determined to enjoy the balmy summer air anyway.

University City is generally what you would call a nice area, filled with brick-lined walks, bay windows without bars, and foliage older than the students who enjoy the shade. Strolling down certain streets, you can't help feeling closer to Ben Franklin than ever before, at least if you fantasize about the past, as most do.

As I cross Lancaster at 36th, I'm surprised to see a house-less man huddled sleeping on a stoop. This is how the guilt forms in my mind: 'I should get him a sandwich or something.' It is not difficult to trace the origins of this commiseration- if it were not for my friends and family, I would be in a similar bind, and I haven't even hit student loan repayment yet. 

I had already considered stopping at 7/11, probably because it's reassuring to have a destination. At a point in my life with many plans but none of them concrete, walking in circles is a manifested metaphor I'd like to avoid (although on a grid system I suppose we move in squares). I think it's natural to crave the feeling of 'getting somewhere.'

There is another house-less man outside of the convenience store when I arrive. He hurries to swing open the door for me before I can reach the handle. This courtesy embarrasses me immensely, or perhaps it the feeling that I've done nothing to deserve it or my good fortune. I mutter 'thanks' and begin to resent the man as I move between the shining snacks. 

Once again, he reaches the door before I do as I exit. I do not give him the change he requests, though it jingles in my pocket. A block away, I wonder about my divergent attitudes towards these two men. Being treated as more important than an Other has always made me feel silly, to say the least.

Recently I went to somewhat classy dinner with some friends. After we were seated, with many 'ma'ams/sirs' and chairs being whipped out with flourishes, I admitted my discomfort to my friends, as well as my urge to say something absurd to break the pretension (see: 'thanks, sweetcheeks'). They too found it overdone.

And maybe overdone is just the word. We hustle and degrade ourselves to hold on to bits of paper before we pass them on to someone else. In the meantime we forget what we should, or could, want, and who the people around us are. The best the system squeezes from us is guilt and occasional charity. But mostly, it's people like me, clutching quarters tightly out of reach of other hands.