“You know my starter won't start this mornin'
Somethin' must be wrong with my little machine
Mechanic say ’Your car's all right like
You just been burnin' bad gasoline’”
Still singing with
so much folk
not enough elevation
unless your throat swallows —
No, no
write a different poem
write something with
more substance ABUSE.
Your father is a football player
with broken teeth.
He just crack blocked you
into the family van aiming at your throat.
Don’t write him with CTE.
Don’t make him sympathetic.
Don’t tell them both of you are learning
to walk again after you broke his back.
No hemoglobin crosses worth praise here.
All great writers sing into a shotgun —
Here’s what you’ll do:
you stand in a room full of cotton balls
pop open another friend and pop one
of their problems, blame yourself.
You’re the sick one remember?
Keep doing that so everyone hears
your suicide set in
Start playing a saxophone.
Hacking the notes away with a cough,
your cancer breaks the rhythm.
Trust me.
Your sickness knows
how to cut the right lines.
Don’t say there’s a light that’s cliché.
Don’t tell them your friends can save you.
Don’t tell them writing wakes you up
like Tejano for cleaning on Sunday.
DON’T TELL THEM ABOUT THE CHILD IN YOUR REFLECTION
YOU’RE AWFUL REMEMBER?
YOU GOT TO BE LIKE YOUR FATHER REMEMBER?
NEED TO LOVE THEM WITH YOUR FIST KISS THEIR JAWLINE
DON’T OPEN YOUR MOUTH. REND THAT TONGUE.
PLAY THEM A GOODBYE NOTE. GOOD BOY.
DON’T TELL THEM
DON’T TELL THEM
DON’T TELL THEM THAT—
STOP CUTTING MY LINES!
Okay: so here’s how it really plays:
Your father gives you a piece of amethyst
as big as your six-year-old fist,
It was his and he calls it his heart
he’s cheesy like that.
You pick it up thirteen years later,
fracture it, and find yourself
lost in a purple haze.
He picks you up from rehab and takes you
to where nana’s radio pours out
“Me Quieres Tu Y Te Quiero Yo & Lindo Regalo”
into Pawpaw’s coffee cup.
Your friends become charcoal and saline
pumping out the narcotics, replacing them with tears
you regurgitate your half chewed words onto their shoes:
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
"We know, drink this."
Pour you a cup of coffee
they compliment your long sleeve
and say purple is your color.
It says hurt, but still here.
You pick up your guitar, change the tune
and you try to Jimi Hendrix
the voice out of your head.
