You think of yourself a martyr.
The final, only good,
a sacrifice at play,
your blood is a gift.
A rigorous attempt
to leave a legacy,
to mean and matter.
To die for a cause,
never a fight.
With aching bones,
sunken eyes,
blood on your teeth.
Where do you stand?
What is your punishment?
I pick it up off a shelf
And turn it over in my hand
And looked at the tag
6 trash bags full of ill fitting clothes
45 hours of therapy
2 dozen tissues under the bed
28 years of simmering under the surface
12 books on bedside tables
10 years of post-high school disassociation
50 pounds of weight gain
3 dustpans full of dust and fur
The tag went on
And on
And on.
Crayon and paper, 2023
Can you believe the nerve of this therapist?
Asking me to draw a god damned self-portrait?
I mean Jesus Christ!
Where does she get off,
handing me a box of oil pastels
like I have any idea of what I’m supposed to do with those,
or what my face looks like,
for that matter!
What the hell, man!
“How did you feel during that last excercise?”
“Extremely uncomfortable, thanks for asking”
And now you want me to do what, exactly?
Write down “truths”?
About my “self”?
Unbelievable.
Ridiculous.
Impossible, even.
Ok you know what?
Fine.
Here you go:
Portrait of the Artist.
I will be taking no more questions at this time,
thank you.
I had a dream that wound itself
into at least 3 foreign universes;
I swapped scenario
for scenario
for you
for a kinder you.
Turning under the covers
vampiric as I drained the ink from
every image that reminded me
of the months we were Something
and not this fictioned lie
In this dream all the people I could’ve loved
who I didn’t love
were running through
the furrows of hills between
knifing highways
that I couldn’t cross
in the nighttime,
blind,
rouletting with the stars
of distant headlights.
For now trapped
in a hazy dreamscape’s
false sunbeam,
everyone was
dancing,
spinning,
like off-kilter
rockets.
I was terrified of some great Something
chasing behind my back.
I was escaping from a distant ill,
creeping like sunset
at my shadow’s heels.
Everyone looked so happy,
not fleeing just
enjoying the thrill
of a boiling heart in motion.
In the grass comically green
you tore the static
like a rip in my eye.
Navy dress,
dark hair
swirling,
Smiling at a hidden cameraman behind me,
lips so red you must’ve torn someone’s else’s
heart out with your teeth
after you gutted mine.
I ran past, said “fuck you” with an equal smile.
Smiling because I loved you
and you’re here with me now.
Fuck you because I hate you
in all the lives I’ve passed through.
Fuck you because you let your smile become
cut on my thigh that runs
down my leg,
your new red lips too pretty to shut up,
lines spilling verses,
red-handed lies.
In this dream I loved you.
In this dream I hated you.
In this dream you held no thoughts about me.
And doggy pools
that tempt 11 year olds
to come out and play
splash in the face
of Discord and Zelda.
You are still a puppy
but middle school masks
mistakes you seven years older
in dog years. Do you know
make-up runs in sprinklers?
Setting spray won’t hold
when blue popsicle smears
across your sunshine face.
Today we forget the dog days
of our pre-teen daughter
step-mother drama.
Today we laugh.
Run. Roll over. Stay.
as the blinding sun
washes over the beach
of my room
the dog finding its comfort in its ripples
me among the sand
the water is still today
its clean and clear
it doesn’t glitter with make-up
it isn’t littered with overdue homework
it just rests
the insults that where once implanted,
stuck in its sand have since washed away
leaving only the brightest of pearls
my greastest victories
posted on the wall with tape that seems to never wear away
no looming A’s or B’s
to remind me i’m close but not there yet
never the perfect straight A student
that always listens and always cares
but now the water is still, and it rests
and all that pressure has since washed away
in my ode to summer
You sly amalgamation of my clicks and views.
I love that you think oily muscled men
yelling into a microphone is similar to videos of
how to craft the perfect sandwich over a campfire
with just a cleaver or surfers catching massive swells
and sometimes wiping out and sometimes
emerging like a miracle, like the coming of some messiah,
from the mouth of the tidal bore.
And, yes, I did play WCW Revenge on Nintendo Sixty Four.
And you’re damn right I did want to be Ray Mysterio JR flying from the top ropes.
And I absolutely practiced the Stone Cold Stunner on my brother.
But you don’t know that if Vicki McCurry, The Poet’s Mom, The Last Word, The Belt, The Strictest Parent in Paris, caught us watching wrestling we’d get our ass whooped.
She’s didn’t like the violence, the language, the theatrics.
She didn’t like her sons seeing that stuff.
So thank you—you approximation of my interests, you faceless, formless manipulator of the masses.
Yeah—that’s right—I’m talking to you. Tell me: Do you smell
what my mom is cooking?
We talk of water and death
