How I hate those poets who rise at dawn to write a couple hours before work— Wallace Stevens especially, Emperor of Ice-Cream, my ass! You’re not the only one with a day job.
And don’t get me started on Ted Kooser, who should be staying up late in the flatlands to watch the milky way flow instead of drinking dawn from a bucket some early bird probably pooped in.
My muse sleeps in a bottle and does not awake until neon lights buzz. She inspires the moon and I do her bidding beneath flickering televisions, whipping a ballpoint to get every last drop.
The only time you’ll see me in the stark morning light is if I’ve had to walk home drunk and forgotten the way.
As the soft skin of your leg conceals the strength of your thigh, I lean in close to hear your voice— quiet as dandelion seeds in autumn with words powerful as a storm.
Hand in hand, enjoying your perfume, your mouth and eyes straighten, no longer curved like the rest of you. I don’t want to relax my grip but know I can’t clutch onto my desire without losing that which I hold most dear.
I was the teacher’s pet not because of my smarts but because of my charm, smooth chocolate compliments and precision tattling.
I knew which bully to befriend for much-needed protection and when to stab him in the back then upgrade to a bigger model.
There will always be men who think they’re great and need little guys, like me, to confirm their awesomeness.
Sometimes I look at myself through the eyes of a stranger. Who I see is not the person I am. Merely a representation of all that other people want me to be. I try to make the world around me believe a different reality, the self-deception is excruciating sometimes, and exhausting. The real me is revolting just under the surface, but to the world around me, all is calm. What keeps this façade in place is the fact that no one cares about me. I know that for a fact. Sometimes I don’t even want to know who I am. It’s bad enough having to live with myself every day. Experiencing the joy of discovery and understanding real joy is a momentary feeling. There are hiccups of excitement coming from my stomach up into my throat when I allow myself to have that sensation of everything’s all right, and I’m all good with me. Sadly, it fades quickly. Who is allowed to entitle themselves to a speck of happiness? Nah, that’s just something you’re not allowed to experience, I say to myself.