So. . .I haven't really been writing poems, lately, I've been writing scripts and making movies. . .this is the first new poem I've put out for public consumption since 2004 (all the other ones on here were written between 1998-2004), so whether it's any good, I don't know.
Open Mic at the Bar
.
"Remember?"
He asked, and I did.
.
We didn't care if it was Sunday.
We didn't have day jobs.
No traffic
No alarm clocks
No 401k
No five year plans
.
Just poetry
And drinking at noon on weekdays
Looking down at the people in suits scurrying by
And thinking
"Poor fuckers."
.
Just crashing on the couches of friends of friends
Sitting all night in the coffee shop
Writing about
. . .the pain. . .
(it's still there, if I run my pinky fingernail up my arm
hard enough
I can see it through my skin)
.
Just my friend's excitement
About all the things you can do with menstrual blood
Baking cupcakes is the best,
she told us,
But don't paint with it,
because it fades and looks like crap.
.
Just losing track of time
Spinning crazy in the middle of drum circles
Writing poetry on bathroom walls in seedy bars
feeling like a God
.
Just cutting myself where no one would see
Watching crazy light patterns in front of my eyelids
Forgetting to take baths or pay bills
.
Just pushing the envelope
Grabbing my crotch on stage
Daring them to take offence--
but folding without a fight
when they did
.
I had to be more alive
I couldn't have been more alive
I wished I was dead.
.
Now I'm one of the poor fuckers
In business casual
Who can't drink at noon on Monday—
who won't drink at all.
.
"Remember?" he asked,
And I missed those days.
Until
I remembered all I wished I had
With my whole screaming mind
How
I wished I could finish what I started
I wished I could fight for my right to speak
I wished I could have more than a two-week relationship
And I remembered
how I hated myself
For every drunken one night stand
.
And how, now,
even though there's alarm clocks and traffic,
I finish what I start
I fight when it's important
And I am so very, very deeply in love.
.
It's a good trade.