I can sense it, you know,
when you’re thinking about me.
even from miles away.
I was minding my own business
when I started to dream
strange daydreams
in which the way we weren’t
wasn’t killing me by degrees.
I felt a longing that I cannot
explain, because I’m so
over you. I really am.
every time I write a poem,
I think to myself, what if this
is the last one I ever write?
eventually one poem
will have to be the last.
I could make this one
the last by refusing
to write another one.
I did that twenty years ago
but then I wrote another. but
what if the Last Poem
isn’t any good? what if
the first poem
I ever wrote was my best,
and it’s all been downhill
ever since? these are the things
that keep me up at night
sometimes.
this place is wild with nature:
great green leaves like jewels
trembling in the rain with sips of
water held in their emerald cups,
little brown striped lizards
bopping and hopping around
like windup toys, sleek
dark grackles with feathers
that gleam iridescent in the bright
sunlight. at night the tree frogs
creak out their intermittent,
ugly song, while the pool
lights change colors with
aching, subtle slowness
like the way my mind changes
when I’m not noticing. I look
and they’re purple; I look away
and then they’re green. only the
steps and the walls remain
the same, like buried ruins
from some underwater civilization,
some long lost cousin
of Atlantis. I could live here
and forget about life
for a while.
you made me breakfast
today. I stepped on your toe
today. we watched
a game show and I felt stupid
today. we had sex twice
today. I wondered if
the bloom was off the rose
because of me and my
tactless big mouth
today. how could anyone
who doesn’t hate himself
want me? I still don’t
understand it, but I love you
and I think, I hope
you still love me.
I hope it’s the first
of many days where
we work it out and enjoy
each other through
thick and thin
like we did
today.
I had a wish, a little secret
dream that for the longest time
I tried to deny, I
stuffed it down deep
into the dark corners
of my crowded closet
of a heart. it seemed too
impossible to ever
come true – I was looking
for a unicorn, a Pegasus,
or some other magical
creature that didn’t seem
to exist in the realm
of the quotidian.
before I left the house
I noticed I had a tiny fleck
of something in my teeth
and resolved to floss
it out.
at the end of a magical night,
I smiled at myself
happy, tired
in the mirror
of the bathroom of my
favorite venue and
saw that same damned fleck
still hanging out
devil-may-care.
the moral of this story is:
no matter how cute you think
you are, there’s always got to be
something that wants
to bring you down
to earth.
you eat like a beast
that has forgotten it’s
a man. you snuffle and choke
down your food so fast –
I’ve seen feral dogs
that don’t know
where their next meal
is coming from
eat less frantically – you
can’t possibly be
enjoying it.
there’s a reason
these myths exist. Circe
and the swine, Beauty
and the Beast, Red
and the wolf. men
see themselves as beasts
when they act on their
animal instincts.
they see women
as the humans, who
have the power
to set you free
from your cages
of flesh, if only
we would take pity
on you and see beyond
your rude forms
and beastly behavior
to the suffering men
trapped inside.
I’m so fucking sick of
playing this game. I thought
we were finally somewhat
even. and then you went
and played your hidden
hand, the ace
up your sleeve; made
the same old boring,
stupid move. well,
you got my attention, just
enough to make me
make a play in sheer
self-defense.
here’s the thing:
even a beggar can play
chess with the queen.
but the queen
can have the beggar
thrown in jail
when she’s sick
of their game.
not because he’s won.
because she’s done
playing.
welp, have fun
in your self-imposed prison.
is death by taunting
your guards starting
to look at all attractive?
in answer to your observation
about my hypocrisy – my
stating that I hate
most everyone, and do not
suffer boring fools
lightly, yet showing great
kindness and patience
in dealing with
difficult individuals –
I’ve figured out
the common thread.
R. Brookes McKenzie 