Thursday, February 7, 2013

"i did her wrong"

"i did her wrong"
all sorts of thoughts by jake kilroy.

my cheeks would curve like a roller coaster dive
when she would enter any room, any house,
anything heels could strut and clack through
and sound like a funeral parade drummer
with an apathy problem and a gut reaction.

my brows would sail to the end of the world
and stop, frozen, perfected as the metamorphosis
that drove society to worship kafka
but never really understand him.
even now, that reference reads like a buffoon
doing shakespeare in a dive bar open mic contest,
and i'm in the back heckling this poem at best.

my poems would always start off so grand and sincere,
but then they'd dry-heave somewhere in the middle
when sex would crawl about like an escaped patient,
stomach finally pumped and the gown finally trim,
and curiosity would stumble into my head
and bounce off the walls like a drunk
finding his way home, again and again,
but still looking for a good lamp to steal.

she would enter the world, somewhere,
and the nerves in me would glow
and shred and bellow and chuckle,
knowing they were ready to strangle me,
just as soon as i looked back to the world
to pay more attention to the woman,
the women, the daydream symphony of it all,
instead of my crummy words burning
in the neat little fireplace i called a soul.

i tried to write her well, and i know i wrote her often,
but she still moved when i did my best to do good.
she was a dress, she was a sound, she was a fairy tale,
on and on and on, until the ink, the blood, the bottle were dry,
and i was left asleep at a desk torn up by nothing
but a few empty pages and another second chance.

what a waste these hands were when a mouth would've done better,
speaking diamond shaves to a room full of other self-absorbed poets.
for what trouble could i ever really be if i had nothing left to burn?
and so it was a garden of flames, tended quietly and romantically,
as i left the scene forever to drink lemonade in a lawn chair
and read bestsellers with a dog i'd name after another dead dog
and beg and wish and hope that the morning paper would come,
and that would be it.
that would be all of it.

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