Tag Archives: beat poetry

Thoughts of Mine Today (Part 2)

I thought I’d share more of what I can’t get out of my head.

I dropped a hair tie on my sleeping dog.

I won’t ever be good enough for myself. And that will forever be my fault. Fault fault fault.

I read a story of someone who’s had a worse life. I want to say his pain ached just as much as mine, but I feel like his was worse, and mine nothing. But I don’t want to discount another’s pain in any way, even if it’s my own.

My raised, watered and planted religion only grows to make me feel guilty for what I have.

We lived off their charity. Once a week, I met them. There are very clear should and shouldn’ts I came to understand quickly. I get angry at people who do what I couldn’t and feel no remorse. They should have to feel what I felt. They paid for our house and our food. But they saw it as duty, those generous farmers. The generous farmers who listened to sermons. I find, I cannot explain this to my half-brother who’s never had to fall asleep cold – what it is to be dependent and indebted and guilty somehow too, for thinking what you shouldn’t.

She told me she couldn’t ask for help from Mom because she was the successful one. You leave me in the hall, sister, when you mistake me for someone else. That one hurt me so much, I wanted to cut her right back. Tell me how stable you were when you couldn’t function without a man who thought you the best he’d ever know. Ask me how many calls me and Mom traded about getting you help.

I ripped a hole in my favorite pair of jeans. I buy men’s jeans, more room in the thighs less room in the back, and my hips never fit in anywhere.

We measured ourselves for statistics class. I fell in the middle of the ringing bell. I was so scared I’d be there forever. Brown hair, brown car, brown walls, uneducated woman who had children and become more census data influx.

My body mourns my passing age with new sad surprises everyday.

I remember the way I felt, more than what happened. I remember the story you told me. The mcrib event sequence about shamrock shakes and cheap local pork. I remember I hated sitting alone, but I wasn’t in the right head space to sit next to a stranger.

I get asked for directions. But not really ever bothered. I’m pretty enough to look cared for, but not beautiful enough to be noticed. I’m ok with this.

I made up an excuse to talk to you.

I’m terrified, petrified, you only like me because you have to. I asked someone to walk me home, and no one would look up from their computer. I asked where they all went, and they said, “oh weren’t you there?” They all leave me. Or is that the child of divorced parents aged 1-3 during the split, talking?

Poems from My Day (5/19)

i wrote ten of them. you know why.

My dog led me along a thin and narrow path.
I followed her into the deep woods, into rivers
Under trees, I followed her.
We walked up a hill steep and narrow.
She yanked my arm,
Shot into the brush,
And brought me out a little squeaking groundhog.
I followed her while she buried it,
Then we went back to the car.
We had such a lovely time.

She told me I have too much personality. These, hand brush, are cookie-cutters,
Like those boxes that only change from beige to brown,
You, you have too much you in you.

If I wanted to,
I can find all your secrets. Anything you’ve tacked up.
It’s all still there.

Who’s gonna pay for this?
Look at all this damage.
You did this to me.

Tried a new place where the old Thai place used to be, had good drunken, sloppy, noodles.
I wanted to like it, for the spirit of the thing.
They showed off the same dusty black candle boxes, the same Vishnu painting with a mint tint.
The noodles were gummy and the chicken chewy.
I started singing Joni’s “don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
And I didn’t laugh at someone else’s joke. I’m still going through my, I want to be stoic and not laugh all the time phase.
My cheeks hurt now when I smile.
Their sweetened condensed tea wasn’t bad. One day, I’ll be on time. I’ll find the place I love and it won’t close before I’ve had my fill.
Too fancy philosophical for closing Thai restaurants? Yeah, I thought so.

I drive over the limit when I’m surrounded in traffic.
But when I drive at two, after a Saturday of whatever it was,
I go the 55 exactly. I’m accountable more to myself than to the waves, then, I suppose.
I hear as my car starts to struggle with the second switch, my second switch hasn’t worked since I have to be exhausted to sleep.

One of these I wrote for you, you know.
I’ll give you a hint. It was a love poem. Not that I write a lot of love poetry, or good love poetry, or good poetry at all. (I’m not fishing, don’t send me things, you butts)
I just want to talk with you. But I don’t know how to get you to open your instructions.
And if you do start talking, I don’t know what to say. I’ll say something to make you go away again. I always do. Then I miss you.
You said that to me once. I missed you. It made my day, you know? No you don’t.
I’ll be flying with my fancies over this way. Belittling myself again.

I had to tell a story about something fun I did with my best friend from childhood. I couldn’t think of one.
And I started telling it and got that feeling of being boring, and made it worse.
I trapped myself, then got mad at being trapped, then made myself stuck.
We must have done something that was nice, that I don’t associate with embarrassment, shame, penance and disgust. And now I can’t think of any gleeful memory.
They’re only happy when I’m in a certain mood.

So, then, big power in my mind.
I just get the one, then?
She gets me. She’s smarter, and funny as hell, I want to write down everything she says,
Mystical magical.
Same soul.
I just get the one though? I need another, please. Where do I fill out my form?
I’ll get on stage and recite lines for you. I want someone to know me.
Someone I’m not scared to hide the sections of me I only tell the dogs and strangers.
I tried to give it to someone else, pushed it, dropped, stained my floor, still there now, part of the furniture.

I’ll never be good enough. Enough for me.
The competitive me wants more.
The styrofoam container kid in church, says you work for goodness.
But I still take comfort, sometimes, in thinking that the meek have something.
We’re supposed to get the Earth. I think I have that on a magic card as manna.