Tell it to the wind.
Tell it to the night.
Tell it to the cieling fan
circling above your head
where you are alone
because you chose
to be.
You’re safest
in life
when no one
can answer
honestly.
when you found me
i had nothing,
was nothing, felt
nothing.
now i have
even less.
I dream of visiting
this girl Angela
from my grade school.
We’re walking along
a rocky ocean beach.
For some reason
their mayor
is there. He hangs
out often with the local
delinquent kids.
Typically, I have
no money.
Awakening, I think
of you
and smile.
My brain isn’t
awake enough
to process loss.
I return to sleep
and dreams
wearing the necklace
you gave me.
Tomorrow I will
remove it and begin
the process of gathering
things to return them
to you.
walking in the rain
in sandles
is like maneuvering
a greasy floor.
it must have rained
just for me.
grief is tasteless
and dry
like choking
down hot dogs
at a hot dog eating
contest.
…and I lie through my teeth. Someone might get hurt, but it won’t be me…
Wrapped like a mummy
in layers of gauze
lies the truth
of you
and I
waiting
to turn to dust
and blow
away
upon opening.
Beck:
Your sorry eyes, they cut through bone.
They make it hard to leave you alone.
Leave you here wearinyour wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new.
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost cause.
There’s too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares.
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost cause.
I’m tired of fighting
I’m tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause
There’s a place where you are going
You ain’t never been before
There’s no one laughing at your back now
No one standing at your door
Is that what you thought love was for?
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost
Baby I’m a lost cause
I’m tired of fighting
I’m tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause.
I am a fan of Charles Bukowski.
This is one of my favorite poems of his:
too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners
it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don’t ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
“no.”
The floor in this classroom is laminate
made to look like wood. It sounds like plastic
when you walk on it, and it’s nearly impossible
to scoot your chair closer to the desk
if you are sitting in it.
Sometimes before class
I take a half hour nap
in my car. Not today. Instead,
I assembled a breakfast of strawberry
yogurt and black coffee.
It’s sitting on the desk in front
of me.
We’re going to watch
The Killing Fields, my professor
informs us. We need to start
it straight away. Technology, he mumbles.
Does anyone know how to work
the volume on this?
Can someone get the lights?
I sit in the very front in this class
because I know
I will cry.
In what is now called Turkey,
there was a genocide.
In Germany,
there was a genocide.
In Cambodia,
there was a genocide.
I watch the bombs explode.
I watch the babies cover their ears
with their hands and scream.
I watch the babies wander
in circles looking
for their families.
I watch the babies
burnt, burning, crying.
I watch the helpless
mothers.
I think of my babies,
chubby legs, running, laughing,
sleeping under
soft blankets tucked safely
in their beds at night.
I’m sweating as I lay my head
in my left hand
at the front of the room
and cry. I wonder
if anyone notices my shoulders
rising
and falling.
I am embarrassed.
Back home, after picking
the twins up from daycare,
I get them juice, turn
on some cartoons,
turn on my laptop to check
my messages.
Unfair, I read.
Unfair Unfair.
Look at me!
Look at me!
Unfair!
they scream.
And I think
fuck all you
goddamned motherfuckers.
