We’re not terrible.
We just make a damn good show
of pretending, the terrible things
that happen to us are like a surprise party
from hell’s lesser-loved sister city.

You’ve been there.
I’ve only been to the sister city’s
sister city, but I did have a brother-in-law,
who knows that old town,
better than I do the rest of the free world.

He ran an illegal lemonade stand,
in the exact spot where that one actor
danced to the tune of fifty hunchback pistols
until he dropped dead in the streets,
and won every award of the season.

Starred in forty-two more pictures, too.

My brother-in-law was a good man. My sister
didn’t love him until it was too late.

And I’m not a character,
with twelve preset responses.
I just play one,
when the camera may or may not be there,
to pick me apart and leave me stuck in the motion of waking up
even though I’ve been charming decent folk for hours.

On one street
someone reaches out, takes my hand
and tells me I’m going to get
exactly what I deserve.

The next street over
someone puts a knife in my left foot,
and tells me I’m going to get
exactly what I deserve.

Both streets have fantastic libraries,
that no one seems to care about anymore,
and topless joints
where no one expects me to say anything
of real substance.

I don’t know what’s up with those people
since I’m the same son-of-a-bitch most of the time.

My integrity is no longer for sale.
My compassion is still a little on the cheap side.

City lights will blow my mind every time,
and I prefer to see them with a clean bill of health.

That sounds worse than it actually is.
My biology is pretty sound. It’s just everything else,
that needs to turn back the larger-than-life clock
by the end of the year.

09/20/2011

Posted on 09/20/2011
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