Rage and Madness
I think I have died
That you no longer care if I live
This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here
I am hunched
At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt
The hood lined with orange
And the sleeves frayed, worn
I have worn this sweater for so many years,
though loved it half as long
The orange does little to cheer me tonight
As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame
An expansion of your being
I realize the knife is still there
Because I can feel it twisting,
fresh,
in the wound
I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there.
These rhymes are happenstance and agony.
It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy
My tragedy
Like a forgotten war,
Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death
(I don’t even care to draw the conclusion)
I have a thousand songs, twice over, at my fingertips.
I will find one that speaks the words and then the next will not
Perhaps it is for the better that I am not drawn down twice
I may not get up.
But I will continue to try.
I will play a song again and again
It will meld into one occurrence, a day repeated
The beginning will be the end and the count will skyrocket.
And then when I am better, I will never hear it again
Until I hear it again.
And inside my head, I scream
I throw myself against the ground and pound my fists bloody and raw
But my body will never move because I cannot bring the emotion out
It seems to wither when it hits the air
Maybe it’s just that no one told me how.
Maybe I just don’t care enough.
Maybe whatever
I have hundred pens I never use
All different colors and styles
All beloved
I have a hundred books I’ve never read
All fantastic
All beloved
All dusty
A hundred toy cars
A hundred movies
A hundred comics
A hundred ideas
A hundred pictures
A hundred plans
Each in their own stage of development or decay
A hundred hundreds harkening back to grade school when I would take in a hundred chocolate chips
Is it some bizarre transference?
Is it a defect?
Well, clearly, it’s a defect.
Or is it just the sign of a tragic mind that can’t stay focused for more
It seems I am the collector of collections.
I could be that old, odd little man who pushes a giant cart loaded with junk and copper pots and cast iron pans
The junk man
The tinker
Who comes to town on the same day every year, travelling the world in a loop
I am the one who, when approached by the orphaned boy who will soon be a hero, slaps his hand away and says “not that one” or “that’s not for sale”
Or “don’t read that book”
And then he’ll do it behind my back and everything that happens will be my fault
I am like that, but not
‘Cause my entire cart would be made of things orphaned boys couldn’t have
And so as soon as my back is turned
They will all be stolen
And the world will burn down in a million different ways
The point being, for all the stuff I collect and keep, and for all the collections that I don’t care about or are incomplete, I refuse to part with any of them
I am wary of orphaned boys who will soon become heroes
I am wary of the ones around me
Wary of those far away
Wary of those I have met, never met, or wish to forget
I am wary of tomorrow (but yesterday is fine)
I am wary of the distance
The space
I am wary of tomorrow’s tomorrow
I am wary of the sun as it comes over the horizon
(You can’t imagine my anxiety)
Maybe “wary” should be replaced with “scared” but the effect is still the same
Something about this world shakes me to my core and it is ever so hard to walk when the earth is quivering beneath your feet
I can ramble farther than I can walk, even if both were measured in distance, with that clicking, clacking wheel that marks the space
(Somewhere, “space” was rhymed, but I can’t remember the location. It has faded)
I can ramble
I can meander
Amble, wander, roam, I can travel in every way that implies I have gone somewhere and nowhere in the same amount of time
That I have covered the distance and not
That I have spent the time and not
That I have accomplished something and not
That I have gotten something done, and yet the thing is not done
It is not that I have done nothing, it is just that all that I did remains undone
Like I have tied the shoelace in a knot so complex it is invisible, or has returned to a straight line
That everything I have done, I have undone
Except that it is both at the same time
I am doing and undoing concurrently
As such, I am very gifted.
That you no longer care if I live
This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here
I am hunched
At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt
The hood lined with orange
And the sleeves frayed, worn
I have worn this sweater for so many years,
though loved it half as long
The orange does little to cheer me tonight
As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame
An expansion of your being
I realize the knife is still there
Because I can feel it twisting,
fresh,
in the wound
I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there.
These rhymes are happenstance and agony.
It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy
My tragedy
Like a forgotten war,
Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death
(I don’t even care to draw the conclusion)
I have a thousand songs, twice over, at my fingertips.
I will find one that speaks the words and then the next will not
Perhaps it is for the better that I am not drawn down twice
I may not get up.
But I will continue to try.
I will play a song again and again
It will meld into one occurrence, a day repeated
The beginning will be the end and the count will skyrocket.
And then when I am better, I will never hear it again
Until I hear it again.
And inside my head, I scream
I throw myself against the ground and pound my fists bloody and raw
But my body will never move because I cannot bring the emotion out
It seems to wither when it hits the air
Maybe it’s just that no one told me how.
Maybe I just don’t care enough.
Maybe whatever
I have hundred pens I never use
All different colors and styles
All beloved
I have a hundred books I’ve never read
All fantastic
All beloved
All dusty
A hundred toy cars
A hundred movies
A hundred comics
A hundred ideas
A hundred pictures
A hundred plans
Each in their own stage of development or decay
A hundred hundreds harkening back to grade school when I would take in a hundred chocolate chips
Is it some bizarre transference?
Is it a defect?
Well, clearly, it’s a defect.
Or is it just the sign of a tragic mind that can’t stay focused for more
It seems I am the collector of collections.
I could be that old, odd little man who pushes a giant cart loaded with junk and copper pots and cast iron pans
The junk man
The tinker
Who comes to town on the same day every year, travelling the world in a loop
I am the one who, when approached by the orphaned boy who will soon be a hero, slaps his hand away and says “not that one” or “that’s not for sale”
Or “don’t read that book”
And then he’ll do it behind my back and everything that happens will be my fault
I am like that, but not
‘Cause my entire cart would be made of things orphaned boys couldn’t have
And so as soon as my back is turned
They will all be stolen
And the world will burn down in a million different ways
The point being, for all the stuff I collect and keep, and for all the collections that I don’t care about or are incomplete, I refuse to part with any of them
I am wary of orphaned boys who will soon become heroes
I am wary of the ones around me
Wary of those far away
Wary of those I have met, never met, or wish to forget
I am wary of tomorrow (but yesterday is fine)
I am wary of the distance
The space
I am wary of tomorrow’s tomorrow
I am wary of the sun as it comes over the horizon
(You can’t imagine my anxiety)
Maybe “wary” should be replaced with “scared” but the effect is still the same
Something about this world shakes me to my core and it is ever so hard to walk when the earth is quivering beneath your feet
I can ramble farther than I can walk, even if both were measured in distance, with that clicking, clacking wheel that marks the space
(Somewhere, “space” was rhymed, but I can’t remember the location. It has faded)
I can ramble
I can meander
Amble, wander, roam, I can travel in every way that implies I have gone somewhere and nowhere in the same amount of time
That I have covered the distance and not
That I have spent the time and not
That I have accomplished something and not
That I have gotten something done, and yet the thing is not done
It is not that I have done nothing, it is just that all that I did remains undone
Like I have tied the shoelace in a knot so complex it is invisible, or has returned to a straight line
That everything I have done, I have undone
Except that it is both at the same time
I am doing and undoing concurrently
As such, I am very gifted.
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