Stranger Danger
My mother tells me
to not talk to strangers
so sometimes
when the depression
is getting bad
and my body becomes
something I no longer recognize
I don’t speak to myself
and the silence
says it all
for me.
My mother tells me
to not talk to strangers
so sometimes
when the depression
is getting bad
and my body becomes
something I no longer recognize
I don’t speak to myself
and the silence
says it all
for me.
Please don’t tell me how the story ends.
or choose this time to speak of love.
It’s clear we’ll never be “just friends,”
yet please don’t tell me how the story ends.
Let’s enjoy this time together, make no demands
for promises we might not keep, think better of,
but please don’t tell me how our story ends.
It’s much too soon to speak of love.
I will never trust any piece of advice
telling me to deny what I’m feeling.
When you know you are destined for something greater,
be it a spiritual mission, changing the world,
deeper companionship,
or simply being happy,
finding yourself anywhere short of those goals
is like missing a core piece of your soul.
Feelings of despair, loneliness, sadness
and fears of failure, rejection, and meaninglessness
are all part of the spectrum of human emotion.
Should you find yourself in one of these places,
it’s perfectly fine to stay and visit for a while
but you must never call it home.
These emotions offer you a choice.
Do you bow to your darkness
becoming its slave in self deprecation and destruction
or do you choose to stand and fight it,
to reclaim the missing essence of your being
becoming a warrior for yourself?
But to fight it is to know it
and to know it is to feel it full.
It’s to cry yourself to sleep at night,
scream out in anger, or go off somewhere by yourself,
whatever the moment calls for
so you can make it to tomorrow.
The most important part is to always remember
who you are, whether whole or not
so you always have a place you can come home to.
We all know life is made of ups and downs,
but the virtue of balance is yours to maintain
wherever you are in this tumultuous course of life.
Wear white only in the springtime,
black in the winter. I better
not catch you drinking Mountain
Dew again — caffeine will kill you.
Wear skirts no higher than two inches
above the knee. Tuck in your shirt.
Yes, even that sweatshirt. You’re going
straight to hell if you don’t.
Wearing a bra too early makes you
a slut. Not wearing a bra also makes you
a slut. Always wear a belt. If you don’t, you’ll
burn in the fieriest pit of hell.
Wearing new clothes means you’re
rich; old ones mean you’re poor. Either
way, we’ll call you names. Always remember —
you’re going straight to hell.
Bite your tongue if your body has not been
misunderstood monitored mutilated
Stifle if your voice has not been
regulated repressed restrained
Muzzle if you have lawfully
loved lived laughed
The others are talking
Now you listen
A student brought back from Morocco
A purse I could take where I ought to
A very nice gift – and pretty to see
But then, it began to get heavy…
“The purse isn’t heavy – that’s not the blame
It’s what you put in it” she said
But I just put in the regular stuff
Nedjma laughed, and just shook her head.
So, I took a look…
~
Twenty-one pens to write my name
Three pencils and glue
Five chap creams and one lipstick
Six stray cough drops too
Piano book of exercises
Bach piece I can’t play
A bottle of water, a library book
A can of germ-free spray
One Bot-tle of Tylenol
An inhaler too
Some hard candy and a lollypop
Two nails and a screw
Sun and reading glasses
Two granola bars
Hand cream, sun block (just in case)
Picks for my guitar
Scotch tape,scissors, stickers too
Unpaid bills and a ‘postage due’
Half written letter an’ a magazine
Peanut crackers and a tangerine
Twenty-seven Kleenix n’ a roll of Tums
Deposit slips and corn bread crumbs
Wallet, keys and business cards
Flip cell phone and time to pause…
~
She was right – I can’t complain
But it will only get worse…
She laughed again and then she said
“It’s why I picked THAT purse!”
no frozen treat truck
clang-idy ding-dings
no kid-squeals ride
on this tepid June breeze
just mutt-yip-yappings
tire-flap-ity-flappings
along our patched asphalt street
Harley’s v-r-o-o-m v-r-o-o-m
muffes boxe’s boom-boom
nonetheless, hidden Kentucky
songbirds deafen
I haven’t seen the best minds of my generation
Maybe because they were told they were good, important, listened to
Before they made any effort, before they did any work but
I think it’s cowardice
I think they’re afraid to communicate what they believe with courageous clarity
I want to read poems written with sledgehammers
Not antique quills
That resonate in beerhalls and bowling alleys
Not pinky raised tea rooms
Where pretentiousness is not a prerequisite
And understanding not a little club
Filled with sychophants
Are you with me?
Are you fucking with me?
Two boys,
two similar tastes,
a million different C.D.s.
The cacophony
of chords and riffs
reverberates down the hallway
and creeps mercilessly
into the lone retreat
of my bedroom.
Twenty-one Pilots
and U2
and Rush
are all well and good…
in moderation.
By themselves.
Turned down.
Way,
way,
way,
down.
