Thursday, March 8, 2012

A Poem About You

Its easy to write poetry in this room.
The walls are painted dark red, the color of tainted blood. I filled the toilet bowl with blood one fine morning. When the doctor asked "Was the blood bright red or dark?", I knew bright red was the right answer.
There's a thin, mattress on the floor where I toss and turn and sometimes sleep. Sleep is fitful, sleep does not refresh. When you get to a certain point in life, you tend to pass out more than sleep. Sleep is for the young. For those with hope.
The young get tired. I am exhausted.
The chair I sit in is hardwood, high backed and unforgiving. Chipped, cracked, wobbly. Perfect for writing. Picked it up at the dump. I used to sneer at the swap shop on dump runs. Now I do a lot of business there. Thankfully my hair is long, providing me with a measure of anonymity even as it draws attention.
The chair numbs my ass and aggravates my back. I consider that payback for failure.
My weapon of choice is a no name computer, outdated and slow. Romantically I would prefer a typewriter, "the typer' as Bukowski called it, but that takes patience and I have none.
Candles burn, and the flickering shadows keep me on edge, almost as much as my life does.
Its easy to write poetry in this room but its hard going to work. I wash dishes in a Mexican restaurant. $7.25 an hour. No more, no less, no increases. Ever. The line cook treats me like shit except when I have pot. Then I become visible, although I squirm at his phony camaraderie and wonder how jamming his head into the dishwasher and scalding it clean might change his perspective.
On smoke breaks I catch sight of diners coming and going, overhear pieces of conversation. Conversation that fires resentment. Trips to Jamaica, the new Lincoln, the summer home. Beautiful clothes worn carelessly.
I hate them.  I despise them for their air of condescension even though I'm never sure if its real or its me. It fuels me, fuels my poetry. That's all that matters.
They are succeeding, they are living. They don't eat pasta seven nights a week. Fresh one night, reheated the next. They go out to eat. They play by the rules by not playing by the rules; rewards are theirs to indulge.
My intense anger blazes bright from the knowledge that what I have is real and what they do is cheap. Writing poetry, writing anything, is not easy. Selling it is even harder.
My life would be sweet release, hot days and cool nights, effortless grace if I could sell my poems.
But I can't. Nobody wants them. I E-mail them, snail mail them, I would hand deliver them to a publisher on my knees dressed in knickers and ballet slippers if I thought that would improve the odds. Rejection is the norm in the writing game and writers steel themselves to that truth."Every rejection letter brings me closer to my first sale."
Bullshit.
Every rejection letter brings you closer to the edge. A jagged edge that cannot be crossed unless you are ready to disappear.
But it doesn't matter. I know what I have. Here in the candle light as I squirm to get comfortable in this unforgiving chair. As shadows flicker on the wall and hope sputters in my soul.
I'm going to write a poem about you. I know all about you. Peeking through the kitchen door from time to time, watching you swill expensive wine that you couldn't possibly appreciate except for the label, which you read about in Wine Spectator. Watching you shove enchiladas and burritos down your throat, followed by a plate of empanadas that requires deep breaths to make room for in your tortured belly.
Drinking cheap tequila and thinking you're being reckless.
It will be called The Walking Dead. When you read it you will recognize yourself and cry.
I'll send it everywhere, and even if it is rejected unanimously I'll know that it has been read over and over again and find satisfaction in that knowing.
I live alone in a small, sparsely furnished room, slowly drinking myself into a stupor every night, writing poetry.
I know what I have and its more than you will ever have.

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