I am melting from realizing some
unfixable holes in this carton of dreams.
Someone carried down my teenage
ambitions in a sack and slung them
onto the floor. A pack of kids better
off with train tracks than debit cards.
I still suffer those same things that cut me
out of myself: a car full of people I know
passing me by, a whole pot of guilt
bubbling on the back burner, and a
hard on for futile pursuit cartoons.
I went walking through pockets of smoke,
searching the warzone for nostalgia,
and finding those old wants gagged
with a ransom note. I was so envious
it only mattered that I never got a return
or a take away. A girl with nothing
but a word gun, a rock gone rolling.
I want the moments that once belonged
to me and I’ll take them from any teenage girl
who doesn’t see it as a frozen second to seize
Jamie Haddox vehemently believes that a little mud isn't as bad as a bloated politician, a rash you can't hide, a tooth headache, or unrequited love… better to get a little dirty. She is unsure, when it comes to cranes and herons, what law velcros one or unhinges the other. 100 percent of the time, she will choose a leftover hibachi scallop over beans from the garden.
the patterns do not change __ __ __ __
they are misremembered __ __ __ __
cool hand __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
separate heat __ __ __ __ __ __
Be gentle don’t bump it I’ve got Andromeda centered
In the viewfinder but it will already have shifted slightly
Gliding its trillion stars and their moons in millimeters
Behind the local legends painted ancient on the dome
but ask me again how much
I care about the other mouths
that could call my name.
We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,
on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR
swallows actin’ drunk
swimmin’ overhead
chasin’ each other ‘round
like brand new lovers
stumblin’ out the bar at 2 am
I command subjects, turn math to English, history
to lunch, govern teachers and students alike in
my slow crawl through middle and high school
periods.
We are all God’s little playthings. Or else why are we on a ball.
I had the goods,
the lowdown, the skinny,
the whole truth
and nothing but.
I was dangerously
in the know.
If you listen, really listen, their voices come back.
They start to tell you about places you’ve
never been, about things you want with
a ferocity that scares you sometimes. They make
sense. Sit with them on the couch and watch
a movie you know is bad.
Only connect
indeed. Dressed and buckled in
like chefs or psychiatric patients,
they shuffle and lunge.