The curtain now has fully closed-
So why am I still on this stage
Declaiming words I never wrote.

Why am I in fancy costume, with
Heavy makeup on my face
To hide the wrinkles of my failings
And paint me as a thespian.

Cast in a play they say I’ve written
With a pen that's never touched my hand
And a last act that I’ve never seen.

I haven’t learned the blocking yet,
So I don’t know which way to move
Or which door I should exit through
And what will be my final lines.

As lights go down from the Interval
The audience regains their seats
To watch me in the final scene.
  ^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
It’s over so I bow to scant applause
And no one comes to hand me flowers.
I stumble as the lights go slowly out,
And make my way from memory
To my dressing room down a dusty hall
Where I will take this garish makeup off
And walk home as the girl I really am.
                        ljm

A cruel night that permits me no sleep
The music is indistinct from silence
Soon, the sun will be up.

God, blessed. Me with my atheist prayers
Agnostic, if you will. Thank you.
Al-hamad ul lillahi rabb-ul-Aalameen
I spread the prayer mat
I kneel with my shorts on
With my headphones on
With music, with my unwashed feet

I say nothing. I do not weep.

It is just an old ritual.
My mother's anti-depressant.
She takes those arabic verses
Twice a day, with mildly cool water
Preferably before meals
And after difficult arguments

Me, I
Hah.

I get bored. I turn to boys and paints
To rage driving and boxing.
I dance terribly to myself.

I would drink music if I could.

Cruel daylight tip toes in
I wish I could tell them
How much I can ache. How much.
So much so, however,
I do not skip my lectures.
I do not fail my tests.
Day after day after day

I will zip the crude self open
And fix it, tick by tick
To pull through one more study session

And God - or God-not if you will -
Is just a pseudo-political nuisance now

Grief does not make us more human.

I so wanted to be you
wanting

the rotting wagon tongue the
lunar dust

I wanted your west
your dying towns

the salmon that swam
upstream

and the girl that giggled and scissor kicked
in your drink

because

I'm a poet and what might
have depressed others

was lush and fertile landscape
to me

but when I traveled your America
I saw saw it

through much cheaper sun glasses
the kind

you might buy at a truck stop
or someplace

like Wall Drug
or an Indian smoke shop

with a neon war bonnet
and that

made all the difference

My sisters don’t answer their phones
if their boyfriends are asleep-
hardworking men with shifts in the morning
and reputations to keep.
Lunches to pack, clothes laid out neat,
and they do it all willingly,
from a place of love, how sweet.

I did these things too,
once, long ago.
I gave up my needs
for the good wife show.
But if it’s midnight and I want to speak-
I don’t give a **** if that man is asleep.

When’s he been gentle?
When’s he cared back?
I go to work too-
Where the hell is my slack?
A woman stays quiet to keep a man’s peace,
but is that really worth it
when a part of you dies piece by piece?

Why doesn't he talk to me?
Does time pass slower in France?
Or does he forget to remember me

What do I do?
Time does not pass slow here
One faltering minute over minute
Sleep evades me. I am unoriginal
In this saturation of pain
All rhyme, flow, rhythm, quirk
I can say nothing. I weep
Generously.
I try to be kind to myself
I dance to routine, to responsibility
I try to draw. I cannot paint.
I try to be kind to myself
Everyday, everyday, everyday, the same
Old stubborn silence, and this nauseating
Love and this this pain that breaks me

Little chip at a time

How do I tell you, man
That what I felt was good and gentle
That I gave without doubt, that I -
That when the grief comes
It comes without restraint and it
Constitutes me wholly. And I weep
Horribly into my hands
And wipe my eyes like a child

And when I am done and tired,
I am yearning still.

I wish he were kinder to me.

go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am),
jog an 8K  •thinking of you, wash up
drink some flavored, black coffee
watch the morning sun balloon
eat toast while reading a set amount
write my unique and uninteresting analysis
work on half a dozen, odd assignments
walk .8 miles to campus  •thinking of you
team up, with some older, uninteresting guys
interview a focus group, present dataset interpretations
walk .8 miles back to my flat  •thinking of you
eat while reading a set amount
go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am)…
.
.
Songs for this:
Falling Down a Wellby Jack J
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]

On my last drunken escapade,
I was sitting in my girlfriend's
living room.
It was 3:28 am, I was *******
on a cheap bottle of *****, and
It was ******* the soul right
out of me.
I knew things needed to change.
She had just ****** me dry in
the bedroom, and I was losing
all my strength.
I had the wisdom of a snail,
inching along, waiting to be
crushed.

I wasn't drunk, just liquid smooth.
Contemplating and configuring the
degradation and the lack of
windmills to chase.
The mirror had become a horrible and
pitiful place. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a large shadow zip
across the wall.
A second later, our cat, Patches, leapt
into the air.
I heard a terrible

Squeak, tweet, squawk,

I ran to her and began prying
at her mouth.
It was a small night bird.
I took it from her and put it
outside.
It was still alive, and there was
no
blood on my hands.
I said,

Bad Patches.

It freaked me out.
I woke up my girlfriend and told
her what happened.
She said,
are you sure it wasn't a dream?
I went into the bathroom and looked
in the mirror.
I drained the last of the *****,
and walked to the hospital.
When it's time,
you just know.

Reunion

One bright day, in the middle
Of July two great loves
Got up

to Fight.

There were no more

Kisses.

One Great Love waited
while the other
Spit on his hands
      And went back to work.

It's the heat that makes me

Crazy.

I am fertilized with the
salt of years.  


I

Sadness has

Accomplish

So long ago a time.

That time has scratched

you

like a tattoo

onto the outline of my
body..

I remain in my old age

Yours to do
With me some
things

Where there is little time
for hand candy

Or

Tears.


Caroline Shank


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