michael king

stack of stained pages, redacted love letters, spilling ink, pressing it into tomorrow

Category: Uncategorized

write this down.

coq au vin and steak frites,
one of each, swap your
plate with mine, catch
our breath from running
through chilled streets,
laughing, what about this
place, pear martini, stories
of theme parks, what about
this

my handwriting is
feverish, graphite dusting
the margins, i want to forget
nothing, cannot permit
the blurring of a single
whisker, somehow this time
i am sure it’s important

i have never been one to
run down a road i haven’t
yet vetted, and yet
i am running, chasing
you through city streets
under lamplight, what about
this place, you ask me, my
eyes settling on you, what
about this

kshhhh.

the calendar year shattered and
spilled in splinters across
the floor, and we
were so broken by the
brokenness we very
nearly missed the
way breaking makes room
for new worlds

you are unlike anyone
i’ve ever allowed myself
to imagine,
unprecedented, and
i can’t quit wondering
whether our eyes would have
found each other in
the unbroken age

i’m drinking gin and
watching someone sigh and
set his story on the lamplit tile,
my god, the worlds we
carry, and i’m seeing you,
pupils dilated, and
i’m remembering how
addictive it is to be seen,
sober and chasing you
through subway stations,
i feel drunk and unafraid
of the hangover

sweep things free from
the coffee table, make some
room for your sweating
back, i want to watch you
in this moment, paint
your picture over
every old, broken plan

glass of wine at my lips
as the new world unfurls,
the here, now, the
everything, catching
light in wild fragments.

again, again.

what is growing
if not learning to trust
our broken fragments to
come back together
in the case we lose our
footing in the following
of our wildest whims

nobody keeps themselves safe
by trying to glance ahead,
pages flipping, skimming
paragraphs for clues, the
writing’s never on the wall
’til it is, ’til it
stares us down in
scarlet ink

won’t save my skin
by holding my breath, can’t
taste the truth and shroud
myself away at the
same time, sing to myself
softly, i may not know
where this road will
carry me, but these
palms are known in the
art of reassembling
a shattered self

reckless gardener.

plant your kiss against
my jawline and
there grows a poem
on the way someone’s face
never quite looks the same
as it does at 1:31 a.m., eyes
locked in indigo lighting,
what a privilege to witness
you firsthand, i can’t,
for the life of me,
pull my eyes away

and there, in the place
where your head met
my sternum, a poem for
the way my wildest,
brightest plans pale so
abruptly the moment they
are stood beside what is
real and unimagined

when i tell you that
you make me feel poetry,
i mean to say that
there are wildflowers
stretching themselves across
my wanting limbs, reaching,
with the rest of me, for you

streetlight glow.

what a thing, waking
to see your shoulder blades
in silhouette
your dark hair a tangle
the rise and fall
knowing, for the moment,
we’ve chosen
this, here, now

cluster of daisies
in an empty espolón
bottle, tee shirts and
socks strewn haphazardly
across the hardwood
floor, bearing witness

if it’s true, like they say,
that God doesn’t want this
for two boys, then why
did he hand us these
wee hours, simple truths
in honest light, why
does your hand remember
its way to mine while
you sleep?

what a time.

I have the bad habit of holding my breath to get through painful things. At the doctor’s office, in a routine blood draw, my nurses often ask if I’m okay. Breathe, they remind me. Gentle eye contact, reassuring pat on the shoulders.

It’s like, if I can sit just still enough, the wave of hurt might pass me right by. Sometimes, by the time I realize I’ve stopped breathing, my lungs can’t help but gasp for air.

Over longer periods, the holding my breath gets (thankfully) less literal. After I realized I was gay, but before I was ready to tell anybody, holding my breath looked like ceasing building any concrete plans for the future. I stopped hoping for things, halted writing any plans, because the future felt suddenly out of reach.

That time lasted years, stacks and stacks of months where I was just scraping for hope in the present day, and, when I finally said those words – to myself, to my friends, to loved ones – I felt like my lungs finally freed up a bit of room.

It’s been a year of holding my breath, friends, of trying to wait out the grief of all my broken plans, but my sternum aches for honest air, and I haven’t saved a single person, myself included, by standing perfectly still.

No matter what the world feels like, time has resumed its quiet continuity, ushering all of us onward. We have lost jobs, packed our belongings in boxes, set them out in new spaces. There have been positive pregnancy tests, tearful hugs of grieving, tumors found in the bodies of our bravest, steadiest heroes.

So this is me, showing up, taking the deepest, if shakiest, breath I can muster. This is me declaring that surviving a pandemic is not the limit of my creative reach.

So often I am preoccupied by the people who belong in my past chapters. Loved ones who have died, lovers who have left, friends whose laughter I haven’t heard in years. It is jarring to me, the realization that I cannot bring them to today’s pages. The best I can do is keep their stories, taxonomies of our times together, nestled in the eaves of my being. Ask any of my friends: I overflow with stories.

Sometimes, in the midst of telling a friend the story of the time I was kissed in an empty storefront, I glance into my beer and furrow my brow. ‘I’m sorry,’ I chuckle, ‘I forget why I was telling you that.’

‘Because you remembered it,’ he offers, graciously, ‘and you wanted me to remember it too.’

Every time somebody goes, I feel a grief I know will echo throughout the rest of my lifetime. Time demands we give up so damn much to see what waits ahead, and dragging our feet only muddies the journey. The world feels, at times, indifferent to our grieving.

And yet there are skies that bring us hope on heavy mornings, cacti that blossom on the windowsill in light of the January snow. Living may be a hard damn scrape, but it stitches us back together all the same.

Above perhaps all things, I don’t want to regret. I don’t want to wish I’d been gentler, wonder what might’ve happened had I found the courage to speak. I am terrified of leaving my I-love-yous left unspoken, of leaving behind more scars than stories in my wake.

In my story, I have gotten it wrong. I have failed, on occasion with colossal emphasis. I have hurt people I have tried to love, and I have placed my time and energy in the wrong directions.

To dwell too heavily in the past, raking myself against my history’s hard edges in an effort to absolve myself, is to waste today.

In the same vein, to hold my breath and close my eyes in wait of better days is to miss the wonder of what’s happening right around me.

Pandemic or no, I inhabit a world, today, that will, come tomorrow, never again be within reach. It’s up to me to show up to it, to carry yesterday’s tomes and tomorrow’s hopes along with me into my living. There are love letters to be written, laughs to be shared, stories to be etched into the greater tale.

And so here I am.

ten days in.

ten days in and already
i’ve had trouble meeting my
gaze in the mirror, hung
my head, all my skin
new, once again, raw
against the open air

please just stop, i beg
the uncaged puppy in
the sparse amber light
of 3 AM, stop crying
and rest, but it is
my face flooded and
wet, he knows,
burrows into my
shoulder until my
breathing deepens

another time i’ve
been cradled by the
one i’d believed i was
saving

i am a runner deprived
of sleep, eyes weary
and legs weighty,
praying for something
like momentum, never
more alone than in
these heavy hours

string the lights beneath
the boards, bask in
the glow, the way
my friend’s weeps
turn to giggles over
Jennifer Hudson singing
Memories, tonight will be
a memory too, all of us
huddled around the fire
of each other’s company

these pages, too, will
yellow, and i will long
for the sounds of these
days, voices over the
phone, mysteries still
to be solved, loves to
be found, griefs who
will wait to be carried
some far-off tomorrow

2020: between heartbreak and hilarity.

For better or worse, I held myself together until the ripe old age of 25. Then, beneath an audience of golden October leaves, I wrecked myself and fell apart. My first love crumbled on impact, skittering across the concrete, and I shattered right there with it.

I sat down to write about it months later. Given time and space, I finally felt ready to revisit that harrowing morning, the paralyzing days that followed, and put it all onto paper. If I can understand the story, figure out where it belongs along my bookshelf, I imagine it won’t be able to swallow me up.

I wrote about myself in the second-person, further distancing myself from the moment. I became an omniscient narrator, critical and a bit mean-humored, and the me from that morning was now ‘you.’ You wake up and, for a good five minutes, you ask yourself just where in the fuck you are. The writing was cathartic, and it spilled out of my hands without effort. I finished it before my coffee line had vanished and, unsure what to do next, passed it along to a friend.

Days later, she returned feedback: I’m sure this felt good to get out, she said, but it’s not your best work. It doesn’t sound like Michael King. Your best stuff isn’t this severe. Your best stuff is somewhere between heartbreaking and hilarious.

The advice changed, forever, the way I approach hard stories. Not only when I’m writing them, but also when I’m making sense of something I’ve done. There’s humor in the mistakes, sure, but there’s heartbreak in what led us to make them.

So it is that I’m approaching putting 2020 to paper.

In March, my emotions were a slingshot ride. I woke up, most mornings, and felt a sense of wild hope, breaking into a run across a shuttered Manhattan and noticing the stubborn arrival of flowers and sun. I carried this momentum into the afternoon, working with determination to make something of the day. Then, without warning, there was despair. My voice breaking over the phone the moment I said hello to my sister, my eyes flooding like broken dams looking out at sunny, empty New York.

For months, I saw no one I knew in real life. On a run, I’d hear a song and imagine seeing my mother again at an airport, and I’d break into sobs, stumbling to a bench and letting the emotion take hold. On one such occasion, I glanced up to see a woman walking her dog, watching me and crying, too. We said nothing to one another.

Gradually, as late spring and early summer began to take hold of the city, we began to venture closer to one another again. A friend, stationed at a hotel for healthcare workers, asked if I’d be willing to come to his room and watch Drag Race and drink wine with him. When I arrived, he made me pull on scrubs before entering, coached me to walk like I knew what I was doing. An hour later, sitting on his bed and drinking rosé from plastic cups, I glanced across at him and felt rescued.

I’d imagined another summer of kickball games, boozy brunches, and crowded bars, but it was a summer of books and blankets in the park, wine and beer pulled from backpacks, music played over Bluetooth speakers. Hiking across Queens and Brooklyn and Manhattan to grab a beer from the breweries of each. Pizza enjoyed on the sidewalk, tears in gratitude of friendship, rehashing what exactly happened on the night the man fell from the roof (and, thankfully, survived).

June arrived, and it brought heartbreak along with it. George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery. Their stories echoed across the globe, and our communities grappled with wounds long left ignored. Pride month became inextricably intertwined with Black Lives Matter, feeling more like the original Pride marches, and every corner of the city was covered in messages of mattering. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, to listen.

I lost my job in the Fall, and the home that came with it, and I spent a solid two weeks staring down the pathways ahead of me. What kind of story could I write, I asked myself. I felt exhausted, defeated, and tired of mining myself for hope. Stubbornly, I stood up and started looking for apartments, knowing a lease would be harder to obtain without a recent paystub. Election week arrived in that muddle, a series of sleepless nights that reminded me of the trauma of 2016 and the knots it left behind in me. It came and went, and soon a treasured friend and I were moving my belongings to my first chosen home.

The first time I hugged my mom this year, we both cried. I have cried more this year than any other, and I have learned to let hugs last as long as they can. Once, on a long drive, I heard my niece Lynnlee working to distract my niece Ivy, and Ivy broke into wild laughter. The sound struck deep, unburying something deep within me, a hope I’d kept sheltered in these hard days, and my eyes flooded with tears.

Sometimes, when I think back on the way I lived my life before this pandemic, I’m not sure I still have the energy in me to go back and live that way again. Even now, I find myself fatiguing earlier, longing for home and for bed, bracing for the possibility of long stints of time without being witnessed by loving eyes.

But 2020 won’t live on as ‘the year without stories.’ It was the hardest damn year, but it was not without stories: There was the ill-fated bike ride, the impromptu lip sync on 60th Street, the glitter night at Ross’s place, nights smoking and laughing on a fire escape, Thanksgiving getting tackled by gigantic dogs, and a hundred others.

It was heartbreaking, and, in the rarest moments of rescue, it was hilarious.

It was the year of broken plans, of postponed to postponed again to canceled, of running by shuttered windows and trying to remember what it all felt like before. The year of margarita toasts at computer screens, at meaningful glances with strangers, of stubborn warmth pervading the long chill. It was the year of corporate attempts at empathy, reaching our hands, instead, for each other’s, of shedding the thick skins we pulled on to try and feel safe. The year we felt like orphans in our own homes, grieving as a status quo, building with tired damn hands, the year of stubborn damn stories. It was the year we could no longer escape ourselves, glancing at ourselves in the mirror simply so we could feel seen again, finding our long-held flaws, our broken, breathing bodies, finding ourselves suddenly beautiful, strong, brilliant. It was the year of light bending itself to stretch into the deepest cracks, breaking through brokenness, illuminating us.

tell them.

Sometimes I think about New Year’s Eve in 2019. I recall blurry strings of lights, frantic planning and adapting, the splash of beer as plastic cups collided, the roar of ‘happy New Year’ into the open, unmasked air. I left the bar and meandered home in a happy, muddled state.

I remember thinking of the year as a blank page, one which would soon be filled with a story, and we were all dreaming up paragraphs. This would be the year we found love, the year we put ourselves out there, the year we traveled, or chased a new dream, or asked for that promotion at work.

Instead it was the year we discovered the planet had brakes, screeching ones, and our stomachs lurched as the driver’s foot slammed itself down. Weddings, flights to London, concerts, high school graduations, all reduced to a scribbled smudge in some calendar box.

I will write about what came next, the stories that emerged from the year without stories, another time.

Today, I am thinking on the people who carried me through. I am picturing the faces of the people who searched for me, found me in the lost days, shared in my laughter and shouldered my tears (Looking back, there was plenty of both.). In my time, in my way, I’m going to write them love letters.

I want you, each of you, to think on this past year. Think of who lifted you –– is lifting you –– from the mire of ambiguity, steadying your feet on shaky ground and serving as your reminder to believe in better tomorrows. I hope you are seeing someone, or multiple someones, and I hope you will tell them. Hand them flowers in the form of ‘you’re my hope on the hardest days.’

With love.

dirty slates.

in my childhood home, fruity pebbles were
an outlawed item, my mom convinced
there must be cement in the mix,
her fingertips raw from scrubbing
multicolored remnants from the
ceramic rims of white bowls

i am thinking about the way
matter clings to its existence, the
way everything bends itself
to survive, about how maybe
letting go is antithetical, somehow,
to everything

i am thinking of the
number of times my mom
has had to scrub beneath hot water
because i’ve been too careless
to rinse things away

i am thinking of you and
the way we’ll never
have clean slates with one another,
stagnant air and empty hours,
those things that seemed bright,
seemed sweet, scraping their way
down my ribcage