The-last-great-goodbye came without so much of a wave.
There was no yelling like one might expect.
There was no final stand.
There was no reaching out and calling you back, dripping in sweat and tears.
I memorized your dark gray silhouette; watched it leave.
Watched it never come back.
I miss you.
That’s all I really wanted to say.
In fact, everything I say these days is just code for,
I miss you.
Right in the middle of the story.
Followed by moving and touching.
Metaphors that are unclear but will soon be deciphered.
Personal story from before the great war.
Pull quote from General about power hunger.
Explaining the quote with more personal story, but this time, during the war.
Those sneaky metaphors are beginning to take shape…
A map showing the impacted region.
A scale to compare to your thumb nail.
(Inside your head there are violins playing)
THE NARRATOR IS ACTUALLY THE YOUNG BOY!
Pan all the way out.
“We are all tiny specks falling like snow over Chernobyl.”
I am a flat, graphite sketch
on a interdimensional being’s
I look to my right and left
and the being is shouting
at me about depth.
Depth? I ask. Like, what
in the hell is that? Then I
skip away feeling heavy.
I know the being is there,
but I can’t see it/him/her.
The being is blue-silver.
I pray to the being every
night, even though it/him/her
recently erased some of my friends.
I’m not super scared of getting
erased – mostly because, what
does that feel like, ya know?
My world is screens and planes.
The being’s world is cubes and shadows.
Maybe I wanna see stuff like that.
“Everyone gets erased at some point,”
the other 2Ds tell me. I wonder sometimes
about the thickness of this page.
If I am a drawing, is there a drawer?
Woah! Creation ideas abound in two
I am a bunch of curvy
and straight lines. The being is
Maybe I will never understand
the ways of the being. Maybe
I’m too thin to take all that in.
It’s so American it hurts your teeth
So laid back but without the beach
So 1950s that Elvis ain’t dead
So Midwest see the back your head
The blues are not my own
I borrowed them
Ok, I stole
That’s what music is,
Cover up the parts
that everyone knows
and make them
When a new music is born
So savage and violent
like guerilla warfare –
I love it
Slow it way down
until you can’t recognize
anything from the original
No music is inherently anyone’s –
It belongs to whoever conquered it
And left their flag on top
(Bitterly) I’m only halfway up
the insufferable mountain
I dropped my sword an hour ago
Hand to hand
Fist to fist
Till I’m dead
Till we’re all dead
Conflict is as human
as the blues
That’s why I love it
That’s why I stole it
When I sing, you can’t even tell
The steel toed, blue collar poetry
The kind that shit talks and winces-through-sore-forearm-fuckery
Been doin’ it since I was 9, that’s a lie
I’m just a wanna be – that never has
Well, I has a little
(Stammering) I – I – I can hang drywall now!
I can’t grit my teeth like they can yet
I don’t mean it and they know it
Green around the edges with the familiar fishy smell
I walk into the deli,
Tape on my hip, like some
Hollywood “cowboy” that can’t even ride a fuckin’ horse
It’s the kind of sonnet
That always has ragged lines –
Never so neat and orderly
Wait, what am I talking about?
Cause I do both like it’s my first time
I don’t write poems
I write journal entries
or un-catchy choruses
or manic business ideas
or half-hearted love notes
or whole-hearted thank yous
or slanted post-it-note scrawlings
or lines to ward off all this depression
or letters to my left brain so I don’t kill myself
or letters to my right brain about how best to do it
I don’t write poems, I write short speeches that nobody hears