Misfit

I wrote this one night after I’d read a poem to the Laundry Man. It felt more like I’d given a confession than a performance, and to thank him for the experience, I wrote this.

Words spill out; a confession
of dirty laundry to my
poet-priest –

Spinning yarns
about the mythology of
streets and silhouettes –

To a dirty phoenix
drunk on the goon bag blues.

This is my life now.

The Laundry Man
looks sadly at me – I think
he’s disappointed
and I;

I can’t decide if –
if it’s with me
or what happened to me.

The Misfit –
a liar and a poet
I look at him;

To his bearded eyes,
and I begin to speak again
begin to preach
begin to pray
begin to

Speak my truth
as poetry.

I tell him about
looking another old friend
in the eye;

Tell him about saying;
“No.”

Tell him about saying,
“Not today”

Saying,
that this?
This will not be taken
away from me.

Saying that the old friend
was Death –

Saying it again.
Tell him about
bringing someone back
from the brink
I tried
to throw myself from –

The one
I watched little brother
fall from –

I tell him about
bringing a girl back
from the edge of the world
from Hell

Tell him
about going there
myself –

Burning up
self-immolating
for something I wasn’t sure
I believed in.

Rising again
from the ashes
as a poet.

Trying to forget, then
writing confessions
to perform on
stages
instead.

He smiles at me, forgivingly
now he understands;

Why I write about
watching car crashes
in slow motion –

Holding on
to the memory
so I can go back and
watch again
and again

Again.

He smiles at me, forgivingly
he understands;
and I –

I almost wish he didn’t.


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