Some people can get away with it. They're usually 200 years dead or Shel Silverstein.
In college, I met some people whose poetry strictly rhymed. And they were into Pokemon and Dungeons & Dragons with equal avidity.
But sometimes, man.
Sometimes. I get that lethal itch. It's like cross dressing for some men. I just HAVE TO DO IT. In secret. But a in-secret-in-public kind of way. The same way a former football player will walk into Denny's at midnight with 'Runway Red' on his lips and a girdle.
I’m that whore that you raised
yes, dear grandmother
I’m that Babylon craze
My mother’s head soaks in bleach
there are rags on the chair
we had the same blood illness
spreading our legs everywhere.
Now that I have that out of my system, we can move on. And by moving on, I mean in a way that means I don't really move on, but perhaps you think I have.
As usual. this week I'm dealing with the (seemingly lifelong) themes of petty jealousy and envy - those godforsaken talented, wildly successful people who create loads upon loads - ENDLESSLY.
One of the truly great ones I can just push aside pettiness and awe for is, well, not a writer in the traditional sense.
Something about her music drives me mad, lonely, fiercely joyful. This is her voice at the end of her career - which is admittedly different from the start of it. But heroin will do that.
How to dance to Billie Holiday
Move your hips like they
have borne a thousand children
they cry out from the bedsheets
It’s okay, you say. This world is too
rough for you. I saved you. Birth control
and the Blues saved you from being born.
I’ll put you in the wash tomorrow.
How to dance to Billie Holiday at night
scrape your chest off like
you’re scrapping a plate
get it all off. All that red gunk
runs to the floor. Now, don’t you
feel lighter without it? Like a feather
Now, move your feet, dear. Move.