I’ll call and you won’t answer
Because you’re dead
Not a shocking dead but a just about time
From another bad fall dead
You’re lucky to make it this far
It will be me someday too
but that is irrelevant
It’s you that matters
as the phone rings
And you don’t pick up
Please pick up
Shit. That’s what it is.
I’m not falling for it.
You go swallow hatred
War. Fights. Fires. Torches
Go into the pit assholes.
Battle the flesh off of bone
Break your fists into brains
You dumb fucks. That fun for you?
That will please you, cunt?
Then take the shovel and start digging.
Go on, kill yourselves hateboys in the pit
The rest of us, despite our differences are going
To keep living together in peace.
Join us, if you can
Don’t try so hard. Just breathe.
Let the thoughts come. You will needle out
Truth is time. Then we will argue
over points or dashes or slides
Right now I want you to rest
your head on my breasts and listen
Now my heart is your mind
The warmth of my body is you
Hold me. Let me hold you
I would need
Sleep or friendship or touch or prosperity
I need nothing but two pieces of gravel
But you -you are a needy little bitch
And you need to be hooked up to an oxygen tank
I feel you choke at night like a drowning puppy bucket log
You never learn. I told you and told you
But you refuse to get checked out or change
You are not a ditch weed.
You need clean air and fresh water.
You can’t live off exhaust fumes and oil spills and dead possum. You are going to die.
Wake the fuck up
Last night that you read my poems
And told me you forgot how good I was
It broke my heart and made me happy at the same time. In the dream I smiled and looked down. Henry told me that once too, not so long ago
I told him to go fuck himself
Ok, I didn’t. I nodded at him and said thank you
Blah blah ego. Blah. But it would be nice if
It wasn’t so easy to forget myself
I don’t want to put you or Henry or the dogs first anymore. I know I will – Damn tricky beasts of burdens
I’ll lose myself in the cello and play dough and drawing of evil cats and big smiles and stubborn mouths and piles of dirty clothes and demands for food stuffs and toys and damn stuff dropped all over the floor And I’ll become the repetitive motions, human dredge.
Sometimes though, you all disappear and I have a line or feeling that asks for purpose and I find myself again like now. Now I’ll make the fucking soup