I’m going to put my hand on the nun’s knee,
and win her over with a smile that might just be my own.

I’ll write my own goddamn national anthem,
and it won’t say anything about the voices that distress me
because I can’t find a smile or even eyes
to go with their spiritual encouragement.

They’re calling me to something. This isn’t insanity.
This isn’t something I should be worried about.

Ask anyone who was on their way to the funeral
of a dear friend and lost two more on the way over.
Reach out to somebody you know has walked
home in their bare feet, from the scene
where the big mistake was falling in love.

Look for somebody who never runs out
of sarcastic things to say to the groggy, climbing sun.
Even when it’s late to bring the expected salvation,
and all they have to light their way is a bad cigarette habit.

Talk to them. Talk to me.
Know your history.
These sidewalks don’t need the houses to be still,
the wind making you think there’s an ocean nearby,
the leaves crunching all on their own
and the streetlights going out because the song told them to,
for you to know how much is still standing even after it’s been torn down.

None of us are crazy.
We’re just weird and wide awake.

I’m not the weirdest of them all. No sir.
Losing popularity contests doesn’t appeal to me.

I’m going to be the car that goes the speed of light,
but I’ll never actually get in a car,
and I won’t move a single bruised muscle.

I’ll pick the less crazy of the two crazy sisters.

I’ll love all the rotten character in my rotten face,
and I’ll keep spiking my drinks until I find someone
who is inclined to agree with me.

Or should I just trust that I’ve found people
like that already?

Someone needs to have their tongue
perform open heart surgery on my confusion,
and then they need to tell me what the score is.

06/10/2012

Posted on 06/10/2012
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