another White Lady Drama
that’s not a story about me
of course, it could be
i’m white, but no Lady
White Boy Action Hero? Maybe
not even a poet,
didn’t even reach it,
couldn’t hack the school-life
couldn’t hack the work-life
can’t hack a hacker
can’t back a fracker
(not a hacker, or a fracker)
will i go back? does it matter?
do the stories of my life even count
towards a common goal
do your stories even count
will we ever count in this world?
why do some words matter more than some lives
careful not to prick “opinions” or rather thinly veiled
careful not to prick “beliefs” or vaguely justified
find yourself instead in a constant state,
headbanging against incomplete ideology
typing test took me i took
mattering words life
westerner give grace an
pure ocean felt signifies
what’s an 83 in a city filled with 105s?
waking up from dreaming
of human men jumping
off rooftops and screaming,
“the dead are among us.”
sits on the couch
with a full breath.
dew on her lips
she speaks aloud,
cussing before work.
sickly grays on my fingertips, in
my nostrils, filling up my sinuses all the way
to the bridge and past the verse of my neuroses
the monochrome underbellies of clouds
outside my window.
over and over this gray is an earworm,
this depression is too catchy, it’s catching and i’ve
like the raindrops sliding from the sky onto
a child’s tongue.
like a flu of the severest degree, it
spreads through my arteries like molasses
or the thick
honey my hunny left, sideways, uncapped to ooze
slowly and gain speed just to stick fast to the glass
bottoms of jars of pasta sauce and fasten them, unmoving
to the wicker cabinet they’re kept.
i roam from my bed, to the futon, to the bathroom,
thick like that honey
and my legs too dumb, they are too slow and numb
to care for the rest of my body.
my hands reach for anything to stick in my gaping
maw– but everything is a base and it sits in me
like the thudding, empty silence of a goatskin
if the drum could be, maybe, not empty but filled,
like the steep gradient of isobars in a cyclone–
can i wind tightly into a maelstrom release?
will the so-far unyielding viscosity in my veins
harden into coils and springs and send me flying
into the glory and stability of relentless productivity?
or will instead this molasses leaden in my limbs
until one day
when my alarm goes off and my arm
tries to quiet it, it can no longer lift,
and i can no longer move
and the alarm
is just the ringing of my conscience, bouncing
forever from side to side in my skull,
like an empty old pinball table.