The other day,
over cocktails
my friend Rupert
told me how he
puts away his soul
every night.
“I used to hang
it up in the
closet, but last
winter, we had
a moth problem.
Now I have to
fold it up and
put it in the
underwear drawer.
It is full of
holes and pulling
apart at the seams.”
“Billy,” I said,
“Have another.”
June 30, 2009
Unpublished Blues
No, I am not a poet.
I am a typist,
a scrivener
of experiences which
in my eyes are the most
important.
These words I see, someday
flowing from my fingers, and
alighting innocently on the page,
not knowing of their inherent
beauty,
or the flame they conjure
to the awed reader
who will defend my words
with the zeal of an
evangelical preacher.
I know though, this is not
the case, and I look for solace.
I am a typist,
a scrivener
of experiences which
in my eyes are the most
important.
These words I see, someday
flowing from my fingers, and
alighting innocently on the page,
not knowing of their inherent
beauty,
or the flame they conjure
to the awed reader
who will defend my words
with the zeal of an
evangelical preacher.
I know though, this is not
the case, and I look for solace.
A man of infinite jest
You sat in that
bathtub with a gun
to your head, drinking,
sobbing, and
falling
apart.
That bathroom was full of mildew,
and used tampons littered the trash.
You sat in there with tears
blurring your vision. You were
unable to recognize your father,
standing before you. But he
could not be there. Lodged in your
mouth, your father’s service revolver
reminded you of the metallic jolt
electricity from a 9-volt battery.
You wanted to pull it away,
stopping that acid taste and
to address that phantasm
hovering before you, but
the electricity running
through your body took
all control from you.
Your muscles contracted:
Around the barrel,
your lips;
around the grip,
your fist;
and around the trigger,
one lingering thumb.
Your eyes clenched.
Your ears braced
for the explosion.
The body relaxed,
and the gun fell with
a splash to the pool
of water near the drain.
The lips were turned up
slightly at the corners.
bathtub with a gun
to your head, drinking,
sobbing, and
falling
apart.
That bathroom was full of mildew,
and used tampons littered the trash.
You sat in there with tears
blurring your vision. You were
unable to recognize your father,
standing before you. But he
could not be there. Lodged in your
mouth, your father’s service revolver
reminded you of the metallic jolt
electricity from a 9-volt battery.
You wanted to pull it away,
stopping that acid taste and
to address that phantasm
hovering before you, but
the electricity running
through your body took
all control from you.
Your muscles contracted:
Around the barrel,
your lips;
around the grip,
your fist;
and around the trigger,
one lingering thumb.
Your eyes clenched.
Your ears braced
for the explosion.
The body relaxed,
and the gun fell with
a splash to the pool
of water near the drain.
The lips were turned up
slightly at the corners.
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