Klaire + MM

young love, old t-shirts

Dad found the box, 
beat-up and tucked back 
in a webbed corner 
of his cluttered garage,

still packed tight 
with my t-shirts
from high school—
nearly 100.

Dealers of nostalgia
call it vintage condition:
fashionably frayed,
a few aesthetically 
pleasant pinholes. 

So I started 
auctioning off
little pieces 
of teenage Clare—

(Klaire 
was the way
I wrote it:
13 year me,
manufacturing identity, 
felt a need 
to reject 
her given name—but I liked my name—
so I changed the letters
into something 
I hoped no one 
had ever seen)

—on Ebay.

Feels weird 
not workin for a paycheck
(Klaire always did)
and damn if
I can’t help but feel 
like I won’t 
be enough…

Besides, 
what I’m gonna do 
with a dozen 
grungy Misfits shirts
at 42? 

I wasn’t sure if 
the Manson ones 
would sell.
He’s been canceled,
and rightly so— 
I suppose?

But holy hell,

$680 for Sweet Dreams!
(he’s in a wedding dress, 
lips smeared vulgar red)

I could not believe
my luck
offloading this shit!

Yet…  
a wee part
of me  
felt terribly guilty 
for letting go 
of things—these faded strings— 
that meant so much 
to Klaire.

I could feel her even,
raging and reeling, 
if I focused myself 
back inside of her.

Then there he was:

Tiny dirt LA lot
(with a mural 
of Kobe and Gigi),
across the street
Belasco Theater—
doors open at 7
for Cantrell and Filter.

We park and tailgate for two:
“I told the sitter one a.m.”
“Do you have the indica pen?”
“Yup, fixing mascara, almost ready.”
A leisurely glance 
out my window—

It’s.
Marilyn.
Fucking. 
Manson.
Just standing there!

He’s stepped out
on the passenger side
of the shiny black Bronco
that nearly hit 
a white Camry
peeling into the lot.

Oh 
there’s no doubt
about it— 
why then, I instantly wonder,
does my heart 
continue 
at the same jaded pace?

Shit, 
I could hit him 
with spit—
but no squealings erupt
from once devout lips.
No shake in my soul,
no trembling grip…

But now
how many hours 
from 95-99
did I focus 
on that 
face?

How many
impossible fantasies 
did Klaire construct 
that started 
exactly like this?
Some similar chance,
meeting by happenstance.

He looked much
the same,
and entirely changed, 
through mature 
and matronly, 
world-weary eyes.

I sat silent,
unseen. 
Didn’t ask anything. 
Did not 
sneak a photo.

I wanted 
to wear 
that moment
in quiet reverence, 
like a musty old t-shirt—
once loved, since lost—

and soak in 
every second
of something 
that didn’t 
really matter,

even back 
in the time
when it
absolutely 
did.