Two Poems (August 20, 2011. Issue 30.)
the beauty of it all
They named him James, but that really doesn't matter.
He grew up alone and awkward like so many others,
the plentitude he was offered a shelter but not a haven.
He suppressed his thoughts from the start,
always unsure of how things ought to be done,
no one there to show him how.
He married young because he was told that was the way to do things,
a girl he didn't care much for, but Mama approved,
time to get going on those grandkids already, twenty was three years too late.
They were never really happy, but they worked through it,
God and their parents let them know it was going to be alright.
Life put on hold to start some others for some other people.
She almost died with the first kid, such a little girl
bled for so long even the doctor gave up, but somehow pulled it out.
She started drinking after that, talking about how she saw things differently now
changed somehow in ways she herself couldn't relate.
Two more came after and life almost became something he enjoyed:
temporary, transient, teasing glimpses into the Elysium he was not meant for.
The youngest died the summer she would have turned one, something the doctors couldn't identify
but it killed her just the same, and took a little bit more of the girl he had married too
she retreated deeper into the alcohol, the lines merging,
giving all that the drink didn't want to the other two,
showing undesired maternal affection to kids who had learned the wrong way what a drunk was
their recess playmates echoing the sentiments of adults who thought they knew something.
She left him the day after his thirtieth first birthday.
Took the kids; they liked her better anyway,
preferring her open addiction to his awkwardly voiced love.
He understood though: Why should they like me? he thought I wouldn't like me.
They grew apart, neither of them marrying again, the children failing to keep them in touch
each rebelling more as time passed, each searching unknowingly for lost years.
The boy went overseas when he was seventeen,
got his mama signed the release papers after he had bought her a few.
He was blown in half almost as soon as he got there,
another one used up before he knew the rules.
Dying there in the dirt and the disease and his shining viscera
the boy was able to get off one last thought: This wasn't supposed to happen
and then the drifted off in spite of himself.
His daddy cried more than he did at the funeral, seeing his line go
and knowing his only son would never produce another.
A clot took him four months later anyhow and it didn't matter anymore then anyway.
Still perpetually unsure, he just kept going,
trudging awkwardly on because it was what was to be done,
because it was the only thing he knew to do.
He settled in, focusing on his imagined career,
fantasy familial hopes no longer distracting;
his final child content not to ever see him again
and her mother entirely unconcerned with any of it.
Realizing that he would never amount to anything he could ever bring himself to be proud of,
he slipped a little more.
It was December when he killed himself
blew the back of his brains out all over the couch he had brought on layaway
(for the kids).
There was an eclipse that night, a beautiful one they said
he wouldn't have cared though, he was already past the thinking about it phase
and on to the working himself up to it one.
If anyone had come, they would have seen a closed casket, the undertaker apparently outmatched
a few who would have noticed gone now, it instead sat in solitude.
The preacher the only one next to the hole as he was lowered into it
the sky above torn, roiling crests of cloud colliding haphazardly
reflecting another broken life, his life.
Not that it mattered much anyway.
this is for all of us
I remember being happy. . .
Nothing mattering but the toys I had, even if they weren't new, and the games which I invented
I knew that they were problems but they did not bother,
Content to immerse myself in whatever, and lose myself in myself
Staying up all night just to do it, my brother by my side and the world yet unknown
A tree seen as something to be climbed and explored, sap clinging to my skin not even thought of,
And the fall down impossible
The smell of freshly cut grass, pine and wet dirt aromas that bought activity
The monsoons an occurrence for celebration, aimlessly running through the rain,
Soaked and getting wetter, sliding through the miniature rivers created by the gutters
Thought was what helped me have fun, to create joy where there had been none before,
Amusing myself with things that now would be left in the trash, happy in what I knew
I remember becoming aware. . .
That everything was not perfect, or even acceptable
I had always known this but it seemed to matter suddenly, like I was responsible to fix it
And if I would just think hard enough I could
At the age of ten telling my mother divorce was the answer, unaware and unconcerned with the Hell my
father was traversing, shattered glass, broken doors and spat words negating it
Sleepless nights spent a silent player in my parents' arguments, helpless to intervene, and angry for it
My input punishable and impertinent, blame cast as to why I was so troublesome
I prayed for a rescue that did not come, for a reprieve, or that I could know what to do
Socially cut off, alone, my family seen as worse than those who I did not know
Angry that I should be different than everyone else, that we could not be normal
Trying to understand what I was told even though it didn't make sense
Slipping into myself, absorbing and understanding things that you should not think about at twelve
My family unaware of the path I was choosing, my father seemingly unconcerned
And my mother preoccupied with raising her family while her own health gave way
I remember giving up. . .
Accepting that I came from a broken home, thinking I was leaving it behind
But really burying it deep inside, my subconscious locking it away and pocketing the key
Nothing mattering, cigarette after cigarette inhaled under the glow of black light
Alcohol bringing the peace that I had thought was no longer mine, settling into a routine
Happy again, comfortable with those who I thought like me
Partners in our hedonism, following the cues we were fed, content to feel superior through
the haze we lived with, knowing that we were right and they were wrong
Collectively aligned against the system, purpose felt vicariously through internet media,
Patiently waiting for the change everyone knew was coming
Taking me from state to state, catching sleep on beds in the houses of people I did not know
Accelerating into the curve, waiting for my governor to stop me, feeling the tires start to slip
Wondering if they would let go, and not really caring what happened after
And knowing all the time that it would not last, that I would regret it
But doing it anyway, rationalizing it away
I remember waking up. . .
Realizing that what I was doing was not the answer, feeling somehow cheated
Even though I had known all along that this is how it would go
Breaking down in my car as I waited for my turn to turn, realizing that I had wasted years that
will never again be mine
Feeling different than I had before it had begun, like I had left some of my intellect behind along the way
Bartered for momentary satisfaction at first sparingly and then without regard
For the first time really understanding that I am not quite as smart as I had always thought,
Doubt slithering in, making itself at home, bringing with it its equally distasteful brothers
Moving forward for the first time in a long time,
Willed, compelled, to succeed as compensation for everything else
Eternally pessimistic, but unwilling to submit just the same
The greatest fight of all occurring within myself |