Thursday, November 4, 2010

Been There, Done That

(a containment poem for poet asides day 4)

I never met you,
but your friend
(who has by now mentioned me, perhaps)
talked to me after I spoke
to her personal health class
but you’ve been occupying
my mind like a bad hang nail
ever since.

I know
you are tired
of residing in space
made for clothes
as opposed to souls.

I remember
my own weariness
when I was you 15 years ago.

I recall the agony
that made bad spasm days seem
like a Central Park stroll in June.

How does the lying start?


Of loss,
Of being abandoned
to manage this body
you can’t control independently.

You promise yourself
it’s only until you get
your own bank account,
your own home,
your own services.

After a briefer time than you imagine
the falsehoods become a habit you don’t desire
like smoking or injecting heroin.
Maintained for the illusions of ease and safety.

You bare the gut twisting.
Learn not to taste each untruth
like two days unbrushed teeth.

You get very good-
smile on cue,
swallow always present sobs.

My experience-
all I can offer you-
is to beware
of the lie’s seduction
and the illusion offered.

One day you’ll
snap and blurt out
the actual reality
of your existence
and that’s better done
with just a little planning,

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