A kid filled with a bunch of inside jokes and suicide notes
who goes in search of the author in himself
who can prove that anything can happen
and anyone can be affected by his own words
and by his own characters
and by his own emotions
by his own comedy
by his own likes
by his own fraternity
by his own masculinity
by his own want
and by his sheer desire to express himself
A kid who wants to author out of
his sheer desire to express himself
A kid who loses his notebook
I sent you my phone number over the prison
email service and you never called me.
You must have run out of quarters. You could
have used nickels, you know, those pay phones
take them, too. So you could have always called.
I was going to congratulate you on beating
the rap and leaving yourself with just one life
sentence. I was going to congratulate you
on trying to beat the rap and appeal your one
life sentence. That showed commitment. That
showed you were committed on getting your
name clear, getting the names of those you
said you never killed cleared.
Now, all I want to say is I’m glad you ran out
of quarters. I’m glad you forgot about nickels.
As I was waiting for my flight home,
a girl and her mother stepped off their
plane and into the terminal. The girl
stretched her arms out in front of her face
as far as she could, then cried out, “We’re
in another airport!”
Her mother took her left hand and said,
“Where do you think planes went,
to our house?” “Yes!” the girl proclaimed.
She waved her right hand over her head.
“No,” her mother said, and she led her daughter
away from the gate and toward the baggage
claim. The girl continued to wave with her
right hand, her palm straining toward the sky.
I waved to her, but she was walking too
far ahead and looking far too high to see me.
The only way he said his name
was with a smile. When he
introduced himself to me, he
smiled, and it took me a moment
to remember he had said his name
in a whisper.
I had to lean close and ask him
for his name one more time, and he
breathed in with a grin across his face,
as though I had just asked him some
stupid question, and he could only greet
it with a stupid question of his own.
Deafen inside the only sound
my forged lips can ever sing,
a beat rung out in the grind
of a rolling eye and echoed on
as long as there’s one ear left
the encore can fall on.
I did have you
to leave the rest to.
You used to call,
This has to be the strangest funeral
in recorded history. All of the mourners
are sitting in chairs gathered around to
make a square with rounded corners
and they’re leaning back and they’re
raising their hands and having someone
call on them to speak and they’re speaking
about fucking when they go out to a
party on Saturday.
And the lights are glaring down and the heater’s
been cranked up and the door is wide open but
inching shut and the windows are barred
and the curtains aren’t drawn.
And they haven’t hired a rabbi nor monk nor
priest nor preacher nor nun alike to exult the
departing soul and there’s an eulogy around
that’s been written nor heard.
And they’ve propped me up on a desk at the far left corner of the room and they’ve forgotten to build a coffin around me.