Wednesday, March 23, 2011

"broken wrist"

"broken wrist"
something only mildly true that became something else entirely by jake kilroy.

i broke my wrist once,
so that it hurt when i wrote.
for once, the words just laid there.
as the fire was in the skin,
but not the paper.
i became bored with myself.
i became bored with writing.
i could only think of my wrist
and all it couldn't do.
so i read.
but didn't write.
i could put on pants,
but slowly.
i was like a caveman,
figuring out the world,
getting ready for work;
minute - minute by minute.
my words made no sense.
wordplay became wordwork,
and i was tired.
so i read.
until i fell asleep in my work clothes.
and then i found something you wrote.
and i wondered why i wasn't writing.
for once, i have pain.
it's physical, yes, but men need anything
to be men.
to be careless.
to be bold.
to be one long act with rave reviews.
so i read.
and i laughed.
and i read what you wrote.
and then i read what i wrote.
and i liked yours better.
so i read.
i could hold books with my left.
but do nothing with the right,
except for button my work shirts,
with stark pain i exaggerated,
to feel brave in my dress clothes.
which became my pajamas.
which became my costume.
which became my wardrobe.
which became my funeral suit.
which became my one joke in this poem.
but then i thought of you
and how you came at the world
much better than i did.
and i didn't feel lonely.
warm sounds swallowed me.
i felt like i was watching your parade,
swinging from a light pole
with a baseball cap and freckles.
and, suddenly, i was at my guitar,
holding it but not playing it.
i still can't play.
so i work.
so i read.
and i thought of everything as nothing,
and it made me smile to know i could.

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