Debe Dalton has a song
about trying to be
a better person. I wish
I could relate, but
I am starting to think
I’m getting worse.
The Beatles sang
“I have to admit it’s
getting better”, but
John Lennon continued
to be a jerk.
won’t I ever
get sick of doing
the wrong thing?
everything was fine.
the night was
a great big juicy apple
and we were enjoying it
together.
until.
two tiny worms
rankled and crawled
at the bottom of
my heart and left
a bad taste
in my mind’s
mouth:
to the people
who were talking about us
while we were on stage:
fuck you! I didn’t even
hear your shitty ass
comments but they
distracted my boyfriend
and musical partner.
you’ve got some nerve.
if I knew who you were,
I’d call you out in a
very personal manner.
to be continued, you
motherfuckers.
you left it
open. to the elements,
to thieves, to squirrels,
to everyone
but me. you’re lucky
that all your crappy,
crappy stuff
was still there when
we came back
to the car. no one
stole your sweet ride,
just like no one stole
your sealed-up
heart.
N.B.: this is the poem
I didn’t write
back when said incident
occurred. is it the same
as what I would have done
then?
the fact that
you even thought
that I would think
that your leaving
that window open
was some kind
of subconscious invitation
makes me laugh.
I wasn’t
even going to
go there. in fact I literally
had not noticed
the offending state
of said window
until you
pointed it out.
you’re the one
who presumed I would
think that, got
annoyed by the nerve of my
presumption, and then
sang a whole slam
about it.
okay, then. I’m
now the one
who is paging
Dr. Freud, on
your behalf. Siggy,
pickup line 1.
I put a frog in your desk
the other day,
did you notice?
I was the one who pulled
out your chair
just before you sat down,
it was my foot that tripped you
that time in the lunch room,
it was me who carved your
initials in that back wall.
I poke you and poke you
but you never pull
my pigtails. what do I
have to do to get you
to notice me?
her latest battle song sung, the bard
sits back and enjoys
the angry squawking
and sputtering
of her rival, while she partakes
of the epic feast before her,
savoring every bite
as if it were his jealous heart
on a platter.
last night I was outside
the regular haunt,
in the doorway, smoking, when
I saw someone come around
the corner, see me,
and promptly turn around
to go back
from whence he came.
I didn’t see
his face, so I was
briefly confused, until
a minute later you
came back, breezed right
by me and went to talk to
some people who
have yet to learn
how much of a snake
you really are.
maybe I’m wrong
for being a little bit annoyed
that in your touching tribute
in which you read my words
as if you had written them
you preferred to keep the author
anonymous.
maybe you wanted
to make me mad
because my words taste better
well-seasoned with
fiery rage.
who put the crack
in the window at the side
of Sidewalk Café? were they
drunk and disorderly, lost
and confused, or just
having a bad day? and why
does it bother me
so very much? is it
a reminder that everything
I love is fragile and can
be shattered far too
easily?
R. Brookes McKenzie 