I kept all the ideas you sent me
I have a special box for them
and it still carries your sent like used postage

Did you forget me?
I see your admirers
getting younger all the time
you’re up to your nostrils in vibe
and fickle as a photo
you’ve surely moved on, just show the newcomers your sash
and it’ll be like they were there all along

If you’re sensing spite
It’s because I’m spiteful
If you’re sensing hate
It’s because I’m lacking a scapegoat
but I still spell your name in capital letters
or convey it with a smirk burdened by forgotten nights of bliss

If I ignored you,
It’s only because you made the awkward notes bend
manipulating sound until music became a redundantly flawless impressionist

My eulogy is the ampersand by which your memories follow mine

you touched me in places that get wistfully ticklish
in reminiscence
of the way you crumbled
the way you turned my yawns into moans

You are hitchhiking
You are drunk
You are overtime
You are snail-mail
You are dusty footage
You are a missed call with no voicemail
You are The Beatles
You are a gateway

You are Love’s impatience
You are shorthand for “Eureka!”

You are well-intentioned
You are voting 3rd party
You are hysterical, in such a way that you could never perform intricate…anything
You are stimuli’s hype-man
The world’s foremost interruption

You are lousy with kids

You wrote fiction
that danced
like the coma of reality

You inspired me
to do nothing in particular

If there are tear-scars on the page
It’s because I’ve recovered what was once numb
and remembered
what good times were like
before wine

Before you came along
I threw scraps of paper in the garbage, where most of them belong
Before you came along
Wu-Tang was temporary, music came to jaunty haults to accommodate the moment
Before you came along
boredom was the mother of invention
Before you came along

Your paranoia distracted you from the miracles you performed; you are a clown
I shed the tears you are forbid to claim

while I was busy protecting my heart
you broke my
and left me
with the tragic ideology
, so hard to defend,
that the discursive man
is the burden of the arts

that my idle pen
is a nascent sword

that ignorance is jail
knowledge is prison
and freedom is a poem written in between

1 comment:

Becca said...

This poem has to be my favorite of yours I've read. It is truly inspiring! I love your poetic voice!