i will be the first to admit that poets are just authors in heat
so, conduct yourself accordingly,
mister analytical, mister impeccably centered, mister frames per second,
you need to take your thinking cap off, stop comparing, and contrast,
you need to embrace a free-fall, lose balance, and take a risk,
you need to catch up, and recognize
that if you knew anything about film you'd know that in order to speed things up,
first you need to,,, slow,,, thin,g,s,,, d,o,w,n,

but no matter how you approach it you need to remember that perfection is unattainable
because in the end, we could all use a good editor,
trim the fat, smooth the transitions,
cut to the chase,
cut to provoking interest,
cut to raising the stakes,

cut to the point where you recognize that in moments when you feel most childish --
you look gorgeous,
with smile as contagious as possibility
and eyes as strong as bungee cords,
that when we first made eye contact
i felt that i was caught red handed
as i tried to hide the fact that i was pinching my skin -- like a bear trap,
like an idiot,
like a boy who takes pictures of person he likes
but doesn't realize his own feelings until the prints are developed
and smudged by the fingerprints of others,

like a boy who finds it funny how the oils and sweat of our skin can be stamped
like unintended finger paints -- smeared like paint by number paints,
proving that we are water and we are colors and we bleed,
much like the night when we penciled our deepest secrets onto cocktail napkins
and let them soak in a reservoir of condensation
until they sank invisibly into the past
and you conned me into believing that sometimes
a napkin can be more than a napkin -- that sometimes a napkin can be an absolver
and sometimes a secret can be more than a secret -- it can gain momentum like a universe,

and sometimes you let me stamp my rough drafts down the length of your back
justified alignment with your spine
and sometimes i awake tangled in an early sunday morning church bell
with the taste of honesty lingering on the back of my tongue and a story to tell
about how you can trademark me with kisses
until my heart does belly flops
and my stomach is a tambourine full of butterflies

cut to the point where we recognize that in moments when we feel most childish --
we are gorgeous,
with legs kicking and laughter as contagious as a yawn,
we ride swing sets and clutch on to a bottle of wine
and i try to convince you that you have purpose
and you try to convince me that i am beautiful
and we both have trouble with the math because we are stubborn,
stubborn as boys who used to build forts out of bed sheets and keep secrets
in sleeping bags, who used to get so tangled in rough drafts
that we would stare blankly into the face of indecision
until we realized that we were as stubborn as our fathers,

cut back to: i convince you that you have purpose
and you convince me that i am beautiful
and we are both so eager to speedthingsup
and yet we are afraid to slow,,, thin,g,s,,, d,o,w,n,
even though we both know that decision is the simplest topography,
made complex by the thinking that we know what we are doing,
rather than trusting -- that we don't,

i'll be the first to admit that i am an author in heat,
that i adore the weight of my words when they pool in the small of your back,
that i conduct myself accordingly when we get lost in our rough drafts,
that even at my most childish, i mean every church bell that rings from these lips,
but if you knew anything about storytelling you'd cut to the part that matters
cut to the conflict
cut to the resolution
cut to the night when i pencil your name onto a cocktail napkin
and let it soak in a reservoir of condensation
until i con myself into believing that it will sink invisibly into the past.

05/27/2008

Author's Note: this is a napkin. this is not an absolver.

Posted on 05/28/2008
Copyright © 2025 Frankie Sanchez