i
thought it was a mechanical problem. i
thought it was my dialog. i was ob-
sessed with beats for a while. it
never felt right. it never had
the right rhythm. maybe i
was looking for poetry
where there was no
poetry, poetry
where there
was only
prose.
bad prose.
because a life without stories
makes for stories without life.
i
wrote them to keep me company, one
dimensional backfill for a four
dimensional emptiness. rain
on dry soil makes only
mud. handprints
bake into ridges.
i can't read.
fossiliz-
ed youth
under-
go-
ing
geo-
logical
surveillance.
layers melting
one into another.
i remember this.
the sad thing is,
i
couldn't have done any better. i
could trace a line from New
York to Pennsylvania but
it wouldn't mean any-
thing. mud pies from
Pennsylvania to
North Carolina
to New Jersey.
two women
screech-
ing out-
side
an
apartment
door.
cops shining
flashlights into
a basement window. and
i traded his sentiment for
my excuse, but you can't opt out.
because
it all comes around in the end. he sang
in the shower. he said love isn't
enough, and you know, he was right.
i
had a sister once. i don't think i ever
had a brother. there was one more, but
she told me i was a burden to live
with. i had reached
the end.
i
thought about doing it in the woods, but
i couldn't give away my cat. i still
have the bookmarks on my old
phone, accidentally filed
under 'things
to do.'
i
could draw a line from New York to Oregon,
but there's no line back. i was pulled
like a thread through a needle, like
water curling down a drain. i re-
cognize none of it now.
pictures of emptiness.
there's a terrain of being unwanted. it
carves out the back of your skull. my
skull. there's meat clinging to the
bone, thin shell of bone. you walk,
i walked with that rounded spine,
carrying with me vertebra dis-
articulated. recombined into
the low belly snake sliding
under doors, leaving the
family undisturbed.
milk. white.
tooth.
less.
silent.
'you're a burden to live with' she said. but
that was someone else.
i
held onto the tightrope with both hands. i
thought my phone was broken. my first
week. she didn't call. some thing broke
in me. broke open. broke loose. live
wire. i held onto it with both
hands. it didn't matter any-
more. it didn't matter
that i was unstable.
i got on the bus.
i went to work.
i paid my bills.
no one cared. no one needed to care.
i
fell free. snake skin. emptied out pickup
truck. industrious camouflage. people
make assumptions because they don't
care, because they don't have to
care. and i slid on by. i could
sit on the curb and cry be-
cause it didn't matter.
the illusion was good enough.
it was the confirmation i couldn't face
all those years ago, the confirmation
that i didn't matter to anyone. i
faced it. i don't know how i
kept going but i did. and
somewhere beyond
that, in a landscape
with color and
light, i felt
eyes on
me that
didn't
let
me
go, that didn't let me fade into the
monochrome.
i
was okay because they were okay. they,
all but one, had a background they
were woven into but they still
saw me. my loose threads
didn't matter
to them.
i belonged.
and that
one,
well.
we followed each other's threads, i think.
so even when other friendships unravel-
ed, faded, cut short, we kept each
other. the tranquil reflection
became the deep and
tranquil pool.
that's why
none of the rest of it matters.
i swapped bad prose for bad poetry.
but so what? i'm whole. i laid
down all that weight. i rest
here. i thought it was a
mechanical problem. i
thought it was my
dialog.
i was wrong.
it was the difference between having
no strength and having no one
believe in your strength.
my strength.
but i'm starting to believe. i can
look them in the eyes
now.
July 2, 2021
