I hate everything. whatever
you’re selling, I’ll have
none of it. I am a lizard
person deprived of warmth.
my hinged jaw could open
and swallow you whole.
if everyone could just stop
expecting me to talk to them,
I might survive this night
without the blood of well-meaning
idiots on my scaly, scaly hands.
if one more girl looking
down on her luck bums
a cigarette from me, I shan’t
be held responsible
for my actions.
Tag: the struggle
bookish children
my stepbrother wrote to me
to tell me about his
eleven year old
daughter. she’s writing
a book, he said. she
reminds him of me.
she is about the age that I was
when my mother married
his father. it was not
at all like the Brady Bunch,
though my sister
and the two boys
might have thought so.
getting better?
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?
the worms
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:
schoolyard days
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?
the crack, and the child
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?
crimes III
this was the worst yet. a
full sprawl in front of
a packed house, and during
a quiet song, just to add
insult to injury – of which
there was plenty. I tried
so hard to catch myself, but
as usual that just
made it worse. I did an
extended pratfall
worthy of a clown
in a circus. except
that it hurt.
and somehow
the worst part was
how various people asked
if I was okay. I’m always
so angry and humiliated
by my shameful,
awkward clumsiness
that any acknowledgement
of a tumble, any attention paid
feels like it might as well be
outright pointing and/or
laughing. that’s why I pretend
to laugh it off and
act like it’s no big deal,
because all I really want to do
is to be allowed to run away
and gather whatever shreds
of dignity remain to me
in private, or at least
where other people are
who didn’t see my downfall.
but belatedly,
thank you, gentle
friends and
random strangers.
I do appreciate
your concern and
common human decency.
next time I’ll probably
not be any more gracious
in accepting your sympathy
than I was in crossing
the damn room.
for the wicked
defeated by the day, I
crawl into my bed again
seeking solace, knowing none
is to be found. I’m weak
with moral turpitude
and some kind of
virus. are they the
same thing? my bones
ache and my blood throbs
to the rhythms
of avoiding responsibility.
this useless waking period
has sapped my strength
and left me powerless
to resist the siren call
of a sad and guilty sleep.
I’ll rest my weary bones,
but take no joy in it.
nice dress
in theory I had everything
one could require
for a celebratory outing:
an annual tradition
of debauchery or
at least mild hooliganism,
ten hours of sleep,
a tropical setting,
family both
old and new, a nice
shiny dress, sparklers,
and booze. but
something was missing.
I didn’t know if it was
just my mood
that wouldn’t bear
examining. my head
wasn’t in the game.
it insisted on
hurting and whispering
“you’re so tired”.
it wasn’t until
I saw new young love
blooming before me
that I realized: the
missing piece was
you.
punching bag
I’m sorry
about last night. my
soul was eating itself
alive, my mind
turning inside out
like a coat,
fears and rage, guilt and sadness
chasing their tails
in circles and
my art needed fuel – I had
to get some feelings out,
it felt like dying –
so I rifled through my
pockets, found an old wound,
a small frustration
hidden deep
inside my heart,
left over from those
olden times when I
carried a sad torch
that was never needed
or wanted, and I
used the feelings, coupled
with the memory, to light
a bitter bonfire
to burn off the excess
pain.
the things
that weigh upon me
the most are the ones
I fear so much
I cannot write a word. so
when a safer outlet
presented itself,
I took it. I see now how
it was a coward’s move.
next time I’ll try harder
to find a way to let
the real demons out.
or at least
find a better target.
R. Brookes McKenzie 