When I was at the guard gate, people would yell
at me
that I should die
or get a real job
or die
or go away
or come here
or burn in hell
or die
or that I was cute
but it was sarcastic
and they would yell
that my hair looks like it should be set
on fire
and they would yell
that I should be dismembered
or disremembered
or erased from existence
or hammered
or hedgehogged
or worse
and they’d curse
and throw tire irons
and harpoons
and useless children at me
and gridirons too,
whatever those are,
and I’d catch them in my teeth
and hang myself
and fall asleep
and commit suicide
but resurrect,
because the guard gate
takes you soul
and your feet
and your spleen
and mashes them up
into darkness
and throws back
minimum wage
at you
and,
truth be told,
I was guarding
nothingness,
empty buildings
that were hardly even
buildings,
buildings
where nothing
was being
built,
and those that yelled
the cruelest utterances
had
the worst lives,
I’m sure,
their words
matching
their failures and
their futures
and so I let them go
and I let the sky
grow dark
and the night
close the eyes
of the world
and I’d stand there
for twelve hours
dying my way
to life.
Negaunee, MI
It’s almost drunk out.
The night is almost here.
The sober day is dead.
We’re young.
We’re stupid young.
We’re at a bonfire
we made
out of twigs
and straw
and hats.
And we’re young.
Nightmare young
where our parents worry,
for good reason,
that we’ll break our necks
in thin rivers,
diving off thinner bridges.
We have no idea
what’s ahead.
I do.
I’m old.
I lived.
I know the future.
I know!
I know Crit
will get kicked
out of the Marines
and go home
and get high
and go home
and get someone
pregnant
and go home
and become a mechanic
and that’s pretty much it.
Such a simple life
in a simple town
for a golden godless eternity.
And I know Kyle
will die.
Kyle doesn’t know this
at this time,
at the bonfire,
but I do
now.
He thinks he will live,
and he will get drunk
and walk across the bonfire
as if he is made
out of fire
himself
and he will die
and I will know how,
but I won’t tell you,
because that’s for Kyle
to tell you
in all of his silence.
And I will live.
Yes, I will live
and become a poet,
which means I will be
lonely.
We’re at an artist residency in Finland and I convince everybody
to walk across the lake.
It will cut the hike in half.
We’re tired.
We haven’t eaten.
No one brought food.
No one brought
rope
or axes
or flares
or ice picks
or churches
or help,
but we all brought cameras.
And none of us know how to save ourselves
if we fall through the ice,
but I tell them to come,
I wave for them to come
and I tell them that I weigh the most
and I do
and I tell them I’ll die first
and last,
and they come,
this line of artists
who look like models
if models looked more like artists
and less like sadness,
and they come and
the lake groans
moans
groans
for our bodies
and we all stop
and an artist says,
Did you hear that?
and we’re frozen
in this meditation
of listening
and the fear in us
is thick
and good
for our art.
On learning an old classmate just got nominated for a Pulitzer Prize on the same day I’m filing for disability
She stole a title of one of my old poems.
I remember walking around a lake with a famous screenwriter
And he warned me, Just so you know, anything you say to me
could pop up as a line of dialogue in what I’m writing right now.
Later, I went and saw the movie.
It was pretty good.
There wasn’t a single line that reminded me of anything I’d said.
I felt disappointed.
I’ve been having trouble breathing lately.
If you’re single at this age, someone should just shoot you
or shoot me. In the guts. Wherever those are.
Fuck, I miss fucking.
Fuck, I miss everything.
I bought a stuffed animal today.
At least I can cuddle that.
A friend told me to go to a prostitute.
I have OCD.
I’m way too much of a germaphobe.
I can’t even shake hands with strangers I know.
How the hell am I supposed to risk everything
for nothing?
I saw a squirrel today while listening to an NPR interview with Benicio del Toro.
Benicio del Squirrel.
He walked up to me
like I wasn’t Godzilla.
I didn’t have any food.
He studied me
and then ran up a tree like it was as simple as falling off a cliff.
I don’t have suicidal ideation.
I don’t idealize about it.
I pray sometimes.
God would save me with a kiss.
Someone who after I wouldn’t feel like I needed to shower.
I’d feel like they were staying a few years passed forever.
This poem is going to be short
because I have to work tomorrow
and I’m not making enough to pay rent this month,
but I applied for help.
It seems like it always comes
on time.
If not,
I’m sure it’ll create a hell
that’ll make a good poem
once I heal from fighting off a thousand pirates who’re
trying to steal my soul.
