Sometimes I wish that certain people were dead
And others would live forever,
That I could torture my childhood bullies
And redo lost fights with past lovers.
Sometimes I hate strangers on sight
And sometimes I love them.
Sometimes I talk to myself,
Sing in the shower,
Cry for no reason,
Skip washing my hands,
Squash bugs and smile,
And ogle sexy cartoon characters.
I wonder what dogs and birds are thinking,
Why mosquitoes bite,
Why I snot,
And why “goose” are “geese” but “moose” aren’t “meese”.
Sometimes I’m terrified but I smile
And I’m happy but I hate it.
Most times I fear or worship myself.
But craziest of all is not that I know I’m crazy,
But that you think you’re not.
I miss dangerous Detroit
I miss dark Detroit
I miss angry Detroit
I miss empty Detroit
I miss scary Detroit
I miss ugly Detroit
because this Detroit that’s coming back
is uglier, scarier, emptier, angrier, darker,
and more dangerous than ever.
Something about perfection
I used to think
that writing is written to be read;
Writing is written
to be written.
I was stirred awake by sounds before unheard. Gonging flinching rhythmic pounding aching switching soothing—all in one, one in all—is the only way I can describe them. Individually, they were distinct as could be—polar, in fact, related in no way—but they came together and melded into one liquid fluid flowing floating form that roused me from the depths of sleep to unprecedented tranquility. If I could find one relative word to describe this euphoric orum, I’d call it “music”. But how far it was from what we call “music”!
Great Gluttonous Death who spares not beast or man,
Indeed my time is one so much delayed;
For can it be that ‘pon this earth I span
The endless breadths, and yet shall be betrayed?
And yet I say, “What makes a man so sure
That his demise is not a breath away?
What guarantees that if he wakes, so pure,
That thus he has been given all the day?
For as for those who’ve met their sudden end,
Did they greet dawn and know no night would come?
Had not they plans and dreams and years to spend,
Then swiftly did they dirt and bones become?”
And so I wake, and ask myself this day:
“Will my day meet its night, or night its day?”
Here’s to the starving multitudes—
Those fed with hunger, clothed with icy winds and stifling heat,
Slapped with shattered hopes and disparaged dreams,
Kicked with the scorn of an end so distantly near;
Here’s to disasters, calamities, catastrophes, deaths,
Rapes, plague, disease, dismantled homes,
Endless tears, oppressive grief, and miracles;
To polluted consciences, passive gods,
Confounded morals, dead virtues,
Outdated scriptures, and the will to believe;
Here’s to the strain of a thousand burdens,
To endless work, fruitless labors, sardonic struggles,
Aimless jobs, and a child’s laughter.
Here’s to a cruel, criminal, crude, and crumbling world
So filled with hope.