I broke the rules like your nose, punchy
They were in my way like you stole my girl
They were conceived against me like that turd and your mother
Meant to help the well-off only like your country club Christmases
But they trapped me like your pussy jiujitsu
So here I am in jail like all your broken dreams
And I dream of freedom like your daily bike ride to the beach and job
You lose like I win
Just deserts, punchy
Just deserts
She clapped her hand to her heart
She sighed not inaudibly and closed her eyes to fight the imagined tears
Mouth closed, back arched, breasts out.
This is rare behavior for her, thank god
Emerging exclusively at poetry readings
When she wants the poet to know how much her pampered heart has broken
Oh, this means so much, this means so
So much to me.
Her aggressively passive response trumping the toil the pauper endured
Capping the night
Usurping it
Without ever purchasing his book.
She’s my wife
She’s the reason I’m a banker
And not a poet
My Dutch Uncle lunched with me
And many other Dutch lunchers
At The Dutch Oven
It smells funky but it’s our favorite
He paid the bill because he’s actually not proud of his heritage
I never sacrificed my family for the office
I was smarter than the rest
Until the night
I sacrificed my family for the office
They forgave me but the guilt and shame still gnaws
I was better than all the management books
I was better than Who Moved My Cheese
Wasn’t I?
Until Malcolm and his fucking demands overwhelmed me
And all the balance I’d achieved evaporated
Like spilled water in Death Valley or on Mercury
I never read metaphor books but probably should have
I never found ways to apologize
And now I just drink, here on the bench, in our backyard
Waiting for the missus and the mistakes, I mean kids, to settle in
The only sacrificing I’m doing tonight is my liver, ya get me
I don’t know that I can face the demon again
The asshole Malcolm who often smells of talcum
Believe me, I couldn’t make that up
Too many brains cells have died in the making of this poem as it is
Indulge me this long goodbye
Because I really need to stop writing
The pen is heavy now, the spirit dulled and dulling
If you see “penis” in “pen is,” then Freud was right and we’re all fucked
I am deep in the weeds, Lord
deep as the depths go
and if I must be deep
as it appears I must be
why must it be weeds, my Lord
why weeds
I dream of the deep: to sink
deep in the fragrant flower beds
deep in the tingling pools of my lover’s moan
indeed, deep in the womb of God, my Lord
why not these
why weeds
why weeds
Whispers of community flow through the trees across porches cooling apple pies
Whispering of traditions nearly lost
Urging in soft pillow pleas to gather, build a human network
And the call seduces, promising slower, easier days ahead
Yet all I find in these new communities is queasiness, an oily reaction to boundaries crossed, lookee-loos indulged, shallow connections curiously growing more shallow and shallower
Perhaps I lack the training to unearth the rich warmth of community. Perhaps it’s a degree or two too warm for me and yes I want my own cool pillow to find my piece of the peace we all deserve. I want to be left alone.
Be successful
But don’t be suck-cessful
Do you know the difference?
You were forced to graze in your mother’s pantry and forced to gaze upon your father’s scowl
And all along all you could think was:
“How did my consciousness end up here, in these cells, with these donors of DNA?
Why not marvelous Marci’s blood or lucky Lucy’s skin?
Neither complain about their genes, though they do complain about their jeans.
Why did my soul have to spark to life in this sad sack of bones, hefty from the feedings, cowering from the snarls, bad at jokes?”
You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
Yet you hold yourself in the mire
neck-deep
And nightly weep your way to bed
Actually
I’m thinking this may not work out
I really can’t be dragged down again for I’ve been dragged down before and I did not enjoy it nor did I grow from it nor did it teach me a damn thing. It was an entirely useless and cruel exercise.
I wanted to ferment my own wine
Care for my own chicks
Pluck my own cabbage
But I never wanted to be a farmer
I wanted leisure time
Time to play on my iPad and nap
Get a tan
California is where I should have been
But it’s so expensive
And my skills were limited to writing these poems that don’t rhyme, have no rhythm, and reveal no insight or emotion
I could have been a professional lottery player
But dang you know that requires money too
Tomorrow I enroll in seminary.
Amen.
Dull January,
Beaming in first position:
The year’s hangover
Before December
The tulips danced in splendor.
Now, they are gone, dead.
Come July, do come
Renew the calendar faith
In the hot mid-year.
Some say September
Sparks the chill, starts the decline.
I love its clear skies.
