brentriley

it's like dating a cat

The pool in July is always crowded. Moms are there with little kids slathered white with sunscreen. The lifeguards look out over the water. The boys, they're all thin and tan. Smooth brown stomachs, nipples the size and color of dark worn pennies. One looks like he should be in a Caravaggio painting and not at a pool. His dark soft hair coils in ringlets against his neck. He looks sleepy under the sun. He props his arm across the back of his chair, so you can see the dark wisps in the cups of his armpits. I know how sweet and clean he smells even from this far away.

It's been a long time since I've written anything. The spring passed and it got hotter. My sister had her baby and I'm an uncle again. I hold my niece and wonder what it's like to be a dad.  It's similar to wondering what it might be like to be a martian. It's so foreign and remote of an idea. I hand her back gently all the while thinking I might snap her neck if I'm not careful.

I've tried to date some. I'm skittish and afraid of being smothered so that's not too helpful in the long run. It's like dating a cat, I'll come around when you ignore me and run away when you want to pet me. I can't help but think this 10cc song from the 70's describes my awkward scattered approach to dating. It's completely depressing but are you surprised?

frida

I was in Philly part of the week. I took a bus to Philadelphia Museum of Art and walked through a gallery of Frida Kahlo paintings. There were paintings of blood and tears and nails in her body. I saw photos of her in a neck brace and a contraption to straighten her broken spine. I saw the pain in her face felt close to her. Later that night, I drank gin and ate olives and blood red steak. It felt like Frida was sitting by me, calling me a gringo and snearing at me with her faint black mustache.

The flight home later that afternoon, I sat an aisle behind a tall boy with hairy arms. His red plaid boxers bunched out the top of his jeans as he crawled into his middle seat. He read a forumla one racing magazine the whole flight. We walked off the plane behind each other, those red boxers peeking out from between his jeans and his yellow tshirt. He turned and walked down another concourse and I walked the other way.

buongiorno

I stood in line at the Post Office this morning. The two envelopes wrinkled in the places my palm touched so I held them by their edges with my fingertips. I sent one letter to my nephew, a belated Valentine's card with rub on dinosaur tattoos. My sister says when he gets my cards he says Isn't it amazing? It's for me! The other letter needed enough stamps to make it to my Italian pen pal Marco who lives in Rome and works in a supermarket. His envelopes have colorful stamps, and he addresses them in a lush cursive that takes up most of the front. He's interested in Rational Architecture and radio. I have no idea what he looks like or sounds like and I prefer it that way. It's better than a photo when I imagine his brown eyes and long loose curls that look wet even when dry. I say hi or buongiorno or whatever and ask if he'll lick a soft g on the inside of my bicep as I push the envelop through the slot in the wall marked stamped.

My old entries are gone. I can start over.

reading: best american poetry 2006
the acme novelty library no. 18 (thank you, jessie)
journals of lewis & clark
watching: goodbye lenin
listening: songs from you forgot it in people, spandau ballet's true