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If it sounds like suicide
It’s probably suicide
If it doesn’t, then
It’s probably suicide
You see. I’ve got to toy with it
I’ve got to play with it
Let it tangle me in knots until
I’ve grown tired of its tricks, until
I’ve acquired a finer taste
For those brief honest moments
Just before sleep, letting him go
Pillow breathing in peace, with it all
And how it had to end, in order for
This boys life—to begin…
How long have you been kicking
Rocks that turn to dust
Destroyed by what’s been filling
Your golden heart with rust
That tree that you’ve been climbing
Tell me where it leads
Across a moonlit river
Among the frightened leaves
It’s someplace quite worth knowing?
It’s quite a sight to see
Where devils dance and parlay
Come fire walk with me
The path of least resistance
It’s trampled in the weeds
Excuse my cheap persistence
I’d follow if you’d lead
The rocks that I’ve been kicking
Each mineral’s a must
To know when I’ll be ready
To rebuild you from dust
It’s not often that she likes my stuff
Maybe one poem a season
Four poems a year
It’s enough to break me down
It’s enough to get me drunk
until she tells me I’m a fool
Which is enough to bring me back
In the Winter
Summer
In the Spring time like a flower
And by Autumns moon
With the goblins and the ghouls
She dances
like a dog on ice
And tells me my head looks big
when I get too thin…
So for that, I know
I can trust her
Some days it’s a blessing
Others it’s a curse
Today’s a bit of both
I’ll only make it worse—
Perhaps this awful feeling’s
A 50/50 split
We balance our emotions
Like Humpty Dumpty did
But come on little Lucy
Fairies don’t exist
The sky ain’t full of diamonds
Your LSD is shit
If proof deserves a reason
I’m aimless as a kid
The message in the pavement
It’s cold covered in spit—
On days that it’s a blessing
Send someone for the hearse
When truth sounds like confession
On those days it’s a curse
It was like
When I stopped wanting to forget
I started to remember
Every minute
Every second
Lost—
And everyone I gave way to that bitter beast
Now empty, yet able
To proceed where I left him
All those Long Island years ago
While she watched The Great Gatsby
And I painted her in watercolors
Poorly, but good enough
For a young drunk in his prime
I kept everything you gave me
In a small plastic container
In a bankers box
In storage
Where I visit you sometimes
Behind a steel shutter door
Padlocked and
Secure
Sometimes you’re there
Others you’re just stuff
Relics of the past
Which I’ll never destroy
Because life is very long
And even though you’ll never know
I still need you some days
On days like yesterday
To bring me back from
these Matchbook Memories
What breaks me doesn’t make me
stronger have you heard
How opposites attract me
without a single word
But feeling without feeling
it’s not a look I’d choose
Now stripped from sole to clavicle
the fear of being used
Presents me with a question mark
no matter what I do
Repeating like a replica
like I’m some form of you
Reaching in my pocket for
a reason to be saved
What breaks me doesn’t make me but
I’ll learn some other way
Like how the cacti flowers from
the desert dry as bone
Or how the chrysalis consumes
itself then finds a home
Or how the wolf does stray
to die a lone cub in the dark
It’s there I lie on grass stained sheets
like stray dogs in the park
Golden hour
Chewing on ice chips
Not much to say
If there’s blue sky in my future
Give it to me soon
These days have been a meathook
Mourning until noon
Seems things will never change
So don’t blame me if I do
If there’s blue sky in my future
I owe it all to you
This is all very blah—
Picking apart the day
like grey hairs uninvited.
The people wait in line
for frappe’s and creamsicles
dripping wet from leaky faucet
mouths of children half asleep.
And mom’s mother Mary Annette
dangling her strings from crooked joints
to anyone who will listen,
even the kids tune her out.
And boredom spread like smiles
over reluctant father’s faces
who’d kill to keep their family safe,
and at the same time be anywhere but.
What a time to be alive, says the old man
generic in his enthusiasm,
talking nowhere, you know back in my day—
Nickels. Dimes. And War.
It’s no wonder there’s limits on parking
and aspects of life we don’t bring up,
and crystal balls and metaphysical shops
selling peace of mind for change.
This is all very blah—I know,
it’s just someone’s wearing GAP Dream,
the same perfume she used
to remove me from her skin
on car rides home
before either of us could drive.
Words Of An Average White Male 