CHAPTER ONE: A FEW GOOD IDEAS
Let’s force some circles into some square pegs,
Hit ourselves in the face with our palms,
Romance all our problems–
But of our promises? Reneg–
Then sing out our praises and our Psalms!
CHAPTER TWO: AT THE MOUNTAINS OF SADNESS
It’s like that sometimes, on certain days
But now I just doubt and know
If I force the words out onto the page–
Read my admissions about my ghosts…
The Golden Years have surely given way to Gray.
CHAPTER THREE: LESSONS IN REINVENTING THE WHEEL
Rose-colored specs? No, I just close my eyes,
Type with fervent, zealous disregard,
Like I am panic in disguise–
Like I am worms in my dog’s heart–
Like a broken ending that can’t be surmised–
Like a simile that doesn’t know it’s
Actually a poetic structure error
That doesn’t even fucking rhyme…
AFTERWORD: DOMESTIC EXISTENTIAL DREAD
(Damn, does it?)
I don’t know how to feel.
Resignation? Baby’s gone off to war.
he dies quick and painless.
Oh, mon miroir…
Anguish? He was all I had.
All I was.
All that I am.
Damn this world that made me–
that made me make him!
Disinterest? So, have you seen the newest episodes?
Latest and greatest says she won’t last the season.
Wouldn’t that be kind.
They don’t even need a reason.
Bargaining? If I pay so much
they’ll leave positive reviews.
If I pay so much
they’ll ridicule my AD budget and I’ll still get views.
for my very own tailored abuse.
Depression? I give up.
I’m no good.
He’s dead to me.
I’m no good.
Denial? I won’t ever give up.
I am the best there is.
DON’T YOU DIE ON ME.
Critics, journals, fans–
It’s just good business. Acceptance.
I give up.
I am no good.
I am going to hole-up inside
and hide. How
If you decide you are nothing
You can guess what you are
But inject potential into your veins
And you can be anything in your heart.
Like a changeling in a farce
You can shift skins and marks.
It could be anything.
If you let it in you–
Let it move you, let it change you–
In your life, and what you decide–
It will be embedded in your art.
I was six years old
I remember when I said courage was saying, “Hey,”
Before something made somebody mark the earth
Foul on the play
Every time a new voice calls out, I’m the first to lose Run girl run, Don’t look back, Hun
Everything lost to rum–‘r some kinda booze
“Foul on the play!”
Guess Church tied my hands together, bound
Like family, like blood, like red on the ground
Scatter, scatter, so just pound it out
Turn the other cheek
Get lost in the spell
Nah. Just pushing the world closer to Hell
‘Cause even if someone’s got something to say
“Shut up and color.”
“Flag on the Goddamned play!”
“Shoot the Ref!” They all seem to settle
Integrity? Shh. Shh…
Thinking about the old days again
About how I shaped the world with
only assumptions and a pen.
Now, I resist pulling things into parts.
Instead, I marvel at their creation
surrounded by so many starving hearts.
Of all my habits and my fall backs
I never could recover from the cliche
things, the already tread-ed tracks.
But now, I’ve deigned my own way.
And, as simple as that sounds
It’s come at a cost; some kind of back pay.
“I can’t breathe.” I oft hear the words now
Like the restlessness of ten years ago
has returned like a seasonal plow.
Churning over the darker, richer earth
I walk an old path, unabashedly renewed–
uncaring of all Robert Frost’s berth.