National Poetry Month came to a close yesterday, with little fanfare but plenty of poetry. This is the poem I came up with.
Broken Party Music
Your sentence for caring at all
means a flood of confessions
you will choke on or vomit back
into batter for their Thank You cake
on your missed birthday.
Thank you for being part
of the most marginalized group
since those who can properly spell
Marcel Proust's name
and list Ringo Starr's
entire discography.
This is why you weep
then go to bed with the pillow
over your face, never enough
to finish the job, the window
open a crack in the hopes
that someone with initiative
will take up the task.
The cat that pretends
to be your dog asks
what you want for your birthday,
and you state you want
the joy of forgetting who you are
without wasting money
one street boy drugs.
The little man in your heart
vacated years ago,
leaving it in the condition
or your own apartment
just to be funny.
Your guru gives advice
to your lovelorn self:
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
The sun is sinking
and so are you.
The good news is
life doesn't discriminate
anyone who looks like
Tom Brady. For the rest,
they have prescriptions.
You don't have
a blonde's chance
in San Salvador,
whatever that's means.
Jump out of the car
if you're looking for meaning.
 |
| And the poetry goes on...somehow. |
Special thanks to Deborah Priestly, Chris Fitzgerald, Chris Toto Zaremba, Jeff Taylor, Devlin Cooper, Julia Carlson, Nancy Messom, Lee Varon and Martha Boss.
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