Hanging out with girls makes me lonely. There’s so much of

telling each other that no one is fat and that he was a dick

for saying that and she was a bitch for not listening

to you better. Looking at pictures 

makes me lonely, too: The time we were g-chatting 

but I was also crying, looking at pictures of Eric dancing 

with his friend’s mom at a wedding.

I’m probably not too shy to admit anything anymore. 

Once I said Shyness is for children! and meant it.

Someone asked me at a poetry reading how I got so 

comfortable talking in between poems and I said 

that once I went to see some musicians perform for a birthday, 

and even when they were playing beautiful Chopin, 

they offered something extra, like a little physical 

comedy routine built around the playing of the piece.

I said that since then I’ve wanted to give people 

who come to see poetry a little something extra, 

and that me, blabbering, is all I’ve ever had,

to give or to keep or to be with on my own. 

There’s really very little

art in that. You’ll never hear me say it’s noble. 

Or if it is noble, it’s only because it isn’t fun 

to show everyone how little you have

and how little you are. 

But no one has much, 

and no one is much,

and everyone should know that we share that.