It is her wedding and I am crushed. It is her wedding and I am in my room listening to La Boehme. It is her wedding and I have already thrown up. It is her wedding and I can’t stop emitting tears from the twin sockets above my nose, as if they were dual vaginas and moist, getting off on something lost.
It is her wedding and I can’t help thinking about the letter she sent me just last October, or the phone conversation we had New Year’s eve.
It is her wedding and somehow, my parents’ found out about it, found out that the girl I accumulate 350 phone bills a month is getting married.
They wonder if this has compounded their son’s almost insoluble depression.
It is her wedding and I am pissed.
It is her wedding and a year earlier I started cutting myself while listening to Morrissey.
It is her wedding and I just don’t know where to go.
It is her wedding and I am not running cross-country in the fall even though it is my senior year. Even though I have been captain of the Varsity Squad since sophomore year.
It is her wedding and every time I look into the mirror my face looks like a pomegranate slowly being squeezed tears of juice extracted in dollops of blood.
It is her wedding and the only thing I want to do is read Anne Sexton and write poems.
It is her wedding and I no longer feel that I have the whole world in front of me, even when I stand at the urinal, like Morrissey suggested.
It is her wedding and I haven’t heard from Mark, who’s carousing in Dallas, about ready to turn 21 years of age, in four months.
It is her wedding and this is the first time in Two years that I have not gone to Europe.
It is her wedding and I have a pack of Swisher sweets that I stole from my Uncle’s garage, not realizing that he only smokes them causally when he goes fishing to ward off the static of mosquitos.
It is her wedding and I recite aloud Ezra Poud. I walk down Moss avenue in the Blazers my cool not-my-biological grandfather gave me in Chicago smoking little cigars, quoting TS Eliot.
It is her wedding and I have struck up a corresponded with Mark’s roommate Matt who is avuncular, who is fatherly, who also writes poems. Who is kind. Who treats me like a son. Who listens to me when I talk about feeling lonely. Who listens to me when I talk about feeling hurt. Who tells me that he is also a huge fan of NPR and a Prairie Home Companion. Who tells me that Mark, now Mark-Andrew, is his brother as well. That he cares for him even though he is scheduled to move out and go to Italy in the spring.
Who pauses for a second as he recollects how they are close, like Kerouac. Who somehow, because it never seems like Mark is around when I call him, we talk about poetry, about art.
It is her wedding and I can’t stop looking at her pictures. The few I have. I can’t stop picturing her caked in a sheath of ivory white.
It is her wedding and I am seriously getting into art.
It is her wedding and it is sweltering .It is her wedding and after I have finished listening to the Texaco pre-recoded Met Opera broadcast of La Boheme. I stumble into the upstairs bathroom. It is her wedding and I am pissed. It is her wedding and I think about how it seems that the only person who ever wants anything to do with me is Frank from Club thirty who has already groped me twice. It is her wedding and attending Manual for four years has taken something away from me, yet given me something more. It is her wedding and I am still writing poems. It is her wedding and I think about the intense make-out session I had with Lisa Joy Katcher in the back of Linda Martin’s mini-van outside the sallow husk stripes Cornstalk theatre. It is her wedding and I am bumping into furniture in my room. It is her wedding and I wanted t vomit when I saw Batman Forever, thinking about that damn Seal song, thinking about how it was only (shit) three years earlier when I saw Batman Return in the theatre the summer when I was learning french and under the spell of Dawn Michelle’s intellect.
It is her wedding and I realize that, even though my organs transition into a stiff putty whenever I think about the scent of her smile, I still have not officially hardcore masturbated over Harmony.
As if doing so would be a sin.
It is her wedding and I am not inside of her.
It is her wedding and I am naked and crying curved in a fetal position in the shower with dollops of water baptizing me as a complete failure in torrents of sprinkles.
It is her wedding and I am all alone.
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