Regular Poem: that kind of everything

15 Nov

Started working on this poem about a month ago when my dad had to be hospitalized for drinking himself half to death. It doesn’t exactly feel finished although he’s out of rehab and doing well now. 

[1]

it’s that kind of night

i haven’t looked for the moon
i’ve been too busy
on earth
i wonder if
it’s as big and looming
as i feel it should be
(i learn later it was a
new moon
not even present
sent in its absentee ballot
or maybe abstained)

i want to
shoot my gun in the air and
scream
fuck a stranger
get in a fight
swim in the wine dark sea
until i’m so tired
i can’t make it back to shore
just bob on sleepily
until a fishing boat reels me in
and when they ask me to explain myself
say i’m a mermaid and
refuse to discuss the matter further

“don’t ask me hank why
do you drink”
he sings
and i sing too
i always sing too

the air is smoke
no oxygen left nothing left to even burn 
and my body itches
as my mind
screams
screams
screams

if you were a bettin’ person
you could put money on
my doing push ups

it’s what i do when i get fucked up
it’s dick measuring
(measuring against no one)
it’s stress relieving
(not working)
it’s
me
(but barely)
and i could do hundreds
and feel the ache in my first rib
the one my chiropractor put back
in place last week

the pain of it reminds me
and makes me forget
it
screams
screams

“why must you live
all the songs
that you wrote”
he sings and
i sing too
i always sing too

it’s choking
(i’ve choked before
but never as much as i’d liked
to see someone’s eyes bulge and
scream)

the lady
who takes his information
is foreign
indeterminately British
and i wish i were anywhere but
here
on this phone with
this lady
four eyes boring into me
(the other two eyes dim with drink and dehydration
staring into Hank Jr. songs
in a whiskey abyss)
regardless they all
want me to say
the right thing
11am
she says they can admit him
i’ll probably have to call in
tomorrow
and i’m glad
(though later when
i do
i don’t remember
how
and i’m still
glad)

i’ve done 80
push ups
good ones
butt down
nose to ground
and still
he doesn’t think
i can haul his 125 pound carcass
to the bathroom

he smells
like a dead man
and i smell
like a
scream
all cigarettes and beer and vanilla

and i don’t
scream
but i want to

[2]

it’s that kind of evening

full of
blessed nothing
possibility
cursed nothing
impossibility
improbability
probability

alone
with plenty of garages to clean
and not enough people to kiss
too many beers to drink
not enough willpower not to
too many songs to sing
too many couches to lie on
too many novels to write
too many thoughts
too many feelings
enough of it all
too much of not enough
everything happens all the time
too fast
and never
enough

[3]

it’s that kind of morning

all red lipstick and rage
quiet and held in the shoulders and neck and jaw
and that rib that’s out again
along with a few others

is she a chiropractor or a priest
i pay her for flagellation
my cranials plead for penance
she absolves my joints and listens
and i want to cry in her arms
but she’s not someone i hire to do
that
she just adjusts my sacrum
and tells me she doesn’t know what to say
i say there’s nothing
to say

it’s time
for emotional outbursts
in diners
stares from old couples
as my eyes well up
with old hollywood tears
i’m pretty when i cry

torch songs over coffee and pancakes
and a convertible top that sticks midway

[4]

it’s that kind of afternoon

too windy
there are funner ways
to get lipstick all over your face
but what would i know about that
all i know
is a glitchy convertible
and surreal sad songs on the radio
drowning
drowning
in harp over electric guitar over
physical restraints at work

my body
lunges into them
hoping to make my mind forget
for just a sec
just one sec
but my mind
sings anyway
it always sings anyway

“’cause i was filled with poison
and blessed with beauty and rage”
i wonder if he’d be into her
under the right circumstances

too much coffee
too much music igniting it
and i’m doing butterflies
with no tap lessons

[5]

it’s that kind of night

again

he’s sober but not exactly with it
i’m sober but dog tired

and i’m daydreaming about applying
hydrocortisone to my incipient stress rash
and skipping town

(this kid at work
hates me
it takes him a while to
remember
sometimes
but when he does
it’s two hour tantrums, 65 self injurious behaviors, 22 headbutts
it’s this
scream
as if i’m an actual axe-wielding madwoman
someone
should record it and use it
in horror films
he could pay his tuition with the profits that would make
and instead of begrudging him
every time
i just think
what it would be like
to make that noise
with that intensity
every time i was upset
about real problems
instead of someone doing their job
politely telling me to wash my arm
and then i think
that problem
to him
is just as stressful
for whatever reason
as mine are to me
but anyway
point is
i’m envious
i can’t make that noise
and headbutt everything
i detest and want to postpone indefinitely)

it’s that kind of night
that i want to fall into my bed
and sleep in my clothes
(i’ve never done that before
what does it feel like
to be the sloppy person
who does that
i would ask one
but he would just give
excuses
rather than answers)

excuses
rather than answers
and that rash is getting worse

[6]

it’s that kind of night

rain and rash
cramps and costumes
small talk and big eating

it’s hard
not to sing along
to a song you know the words to
you can try to hate it
and even succeed
but there you are
singing anyway
always singing anyway

[7]

it’s that kind of night

it’s always nights
when the sun sets so early
and you’re inside all day
so you try to soak in
some kind of phantom sunshine
it’s not there
but you are
outside
where it’s crisp and night sounds and neutral smells

no one
has lit a bonfire tonight
and no flowers are blooming
it’s just
you and the night
and two lines of a song
cascading

a glitter and glint
of porch light on a puddle
and chunky little clouds
covering up the stars
(what constellations are even
out?
i always accuse everything of being orion
and remember i’m always wrong about that
and retract that
and accuse everything of being sagittarius)

and everything is
nothing
so lifeless and lackadaisical
and the rash is on its way out
and i almost miss it

[8]

it’s that kind of morning

why feel good

when you can go about
every inane daily event
out of duty and ritual
hating everything
or ar least feeling unsatisfied
and then drink
hating yourself the whole time
and wake up the next morning
hungover
and hating yourself even more than the night before
and do it all over again
in a stagnant depressing cycle

why feel good

when you can lift up
prayers that would be answered for other people
but not for you

(that’s why he’s sober now
i think in my pathetic rage
my prayers are selfish and stupid and unlistened to
[or perhaps the answer is just always no]
but i’m good at recruiting worthier holier people)

it comforts me
that all the people god chose to bless
in the old testament
were dicks

(it angered me when i first realized the pattern
but then god revealed it to me
that all of us are dicks
and it sunk in
more than it had before)

i’ll take my esau blessing
(do you have only one blessing
not even another little one lying around in the back shed)
for now

but at least there’s
hope
i’ll be one of the chosen dicks
one day

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2 Responses to “Regular Poem: that kind of everything”

  1. Silver Screenings 15 November 2015 at 1:55 PM #

    I love this. So powerful.

    I’m glad to hear your father is in rehab, and I hope that process is going well…

    • TheBestofAlexandra 15 November 2015 at 5:05 PM #

      It’s a little rougher than I usually go for, but I’ve been feeling rough lately. Anyway, I’ve been super encouraged every time I’ve seen him. Thanks so much for your continued support. 🙂

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