disclaimer: Kyler isn't my boyfriend. Just to clarify. BUT IF HE WERE! IF HE WERE!
Watching those curls of smoke reminded me of how simply lucky I was to be lying in that grass, near someone I'd pretty much idolized during my bus rides home. The night was perfect air in my jacket, the light from the cafe's interior was shining out like Jesus Illuminati.
Last night, I found myself in the car on the way to do two things I could regret. One, to go meet Kyler for the first real time, to actually be in his presence and not also on public transportation. Two, to go read my poetry. Aloud. In front of people. You should all know that I'm not a poet. I'm a writer, not a poet. I'm no beat poet, snapping and spouting out rhymes as easy as clockwork. I'm no romantic poet, writing about the same boy for fifty pages of "his eyes are the sky above my head." I'm no poet. I write these things that legally can't qualify as either song or poetry. And I was about to read them aloud, to people who know poetry. Strike the stake between my chest, am I right? Kyler told me to come at nine, which I did. The thing was, the PA system had not yet arrived, and it seemed that no PA system was about to arrive. Also: KYLER. OH MY GOD. I LOVE YOU. I gave him his fruit snacks in a presentation worthy of college radio. "Look what I've brought!" Said I. God, I wouldn't be surprised if he assumed I was some pot dealer with a bad sense of grammar. He played along very well.
He opened his fruit snacks, and together we partook in eating each one bag of Carey Beary Goodness. I ate one with my gum, and when I say "ate one," I mean ATE ONE. I was chewing up the fruit snack, hoping to make my gum taste like Bear, and instead, I did what my throat was trained to do in case of Care Bear mouth ingestion. I swallowed. I personally believe that in order to swallow a piece of gum, you must always make a face. Kyler, upon seeing my I-just-swallowed-an-icky face, knew exactly what it meant.
"You swallowed your gum, didn't you?"
"Yeah." -sad face and nod-
"That's going to take, like, three years to digest."
"Maybe all the hair clippings and fingernails that I eat will push it out."
We took a visit to his car to store the Bears, and whilst there, he made this comment:
"I thought I might get hungry later, so I brought this."
And he drew out a bag of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The whole unopened bag, like what falls out of the box when you're trying to shake out the toy. We both laughed and he explained that he found it in his room, and he couldn't remember how it got there. I think I love this kid.
As we were walking back to the front of the store, he pulled out a pack of Camels and said, "We're going to the front for a minute so I can have a smoke, I hope you don't mind." In my head, I was screaming I LOVE YOU, GO AHEAD, OH MY GOD, A MILLION TIMES GO AHEAD. You know those anti-smoking
So I was lying in the grass outside of Cafe Marmalade, watching this boy who I wanted to swap major spit with, and I was thinking, "I wouldn't mind reading poetry right now." I was really that relaxed, so relaxed by his sheer presence that I didn't mind the idea of going up and bearing the heart on my sleeve. It was him, or it was the two guys smoking chronic right next to us. They were insanely good poets. One of them, Skyler, was a beat poet in my two eyes. He personified beat for me, which was pretty much a religious experience. The other one, whom I nicknamed Pattron Stoswalt, on account of his resemblance to Patrick Stump and Patton Oswalt, read a piece about how he wanted to bake a cake of every different flavor. It was like a pleasure cake. And I could tell that if most of the chicks in that joint weren't either too young or too lesbian, they'd have no hard time watering their peace lily that very moment.
The thing is, I had to read first. I was raped into doing it by this girl Amy who retracted her first-up decision, and raped my mind into believing that I could do it. I was the youngest one there. I was the youngest, and the most unclassifiable, and my knees were wavering. Kyler had actually run out to get some sort of store material. So I was alone, reading poetry to the people I'd just listened to talking about sex and drugs and rock n' roll. And I did considerably well, since all my previous attempts at reading aloud ended up with stuttering and stammering and a lot of repetitions. Only one stumble! I wished, though, that I were better. That I had chosen a better piece or something. Because, let me re-cap:
Amy: Wonderful, ranting and monotone, but it worked for the material. Nervous? I don't think so. I think it's part of her style. Wonderful.
Kim: LESBIAN. Her piece was stunning, considering how political it was, and how I'm usually not a huge fan of the RRRPOLITICSANARCHYRRRFUCKAMERICA writers. But it worked. She's a lesbian, did I mention that? Kyler often reminds her of the fact that she is a dyke. Said he: "Sometimes she'll yell at me, like 'Kyler, you're a bastard!' and I just say 'Oh yeah, well you're a dyke!' and she's like 'Dammit, you've got me.'"
Skyler: [and I'm really sorry if I skipped someone.] Beat. That's all I can say, Beat. He reminded me of Jack Kerouac, or at least, how I pictured Jack Kerouac. He was like... this God of the recounted tale. I wanted to have Skyler perform for me before every Creative Writing class. I also wanted to know why he took my picture, and to have him roll me a few to take home.
Pattron Stoswalt: Cake, oh my God, in my pants, right now. He wasn't overly sexual. He wasn't saying "I'll bake a clit cake to eat on the weekends." No. He was saying things like "pleasure" and "fulfillment," and it was possibly the best poetry on a laptop I'd ever read. Direct quote from Pattron: "Oh, I'm such a yuppie. Reading my poetry from MUH LAPTOP."
I had a fucking. Amazing. Time. I love these people and their poetry, I love that they invited me back. I love that Kyler sat on my lap BECAUSE I ASKED HIM TO and that he gave me two hugs when I left instead of just waving.
The best way I can describe hugging Kyler:
"He's like that plush bear that you had, the one that was bigger than you. It was always just right, not too soft and not too stiff, and when you hugged it, you didn't feel too bad about pushing your tits up against it just a little bit."
I did push my tits up against this plush bear just a little bit. I don't think he noticed, and if he did, he probably assumed I was just falling. But I decided I was going to go back next Tuesday. I also decided that somehow, someday, I'm going to tell Kyler that I totally want to skip Homecoming with his hands up my shirt.
C U NEXT TUESDAY, CAFE MARMALADE!!
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