Doing the Work
My therapist thinks being
polite is the same as faith,
a habit, worn long enough—
like a crate-trained soul—I smile.
This is how we patronize
each other, her and me
and God. If I promise to jump
at the thunder, He promises
not to burn me from the
ground up. With her, it’s just
cash. She asks
if I have any
friends. I say too many has always
been my problem. That’s not
the right word. What I mean
to say is that when I was younger,
I never woke up alone, but
I never slept, either. Let me
tell you a joke. What does
a gangster cat say? (In an Edward
G. Robinson voice) Meow, see,
meow. My daughter and I made
that up together. Maybe you had
to be there. To put it another way,
if I open my mouth, what do you
think will come out? Dirt daubers
crawling on my tongue, which
is another way of saying writer’s
block, the smell of mud, which
is another way of saying death.
But I paw through the nests,
looking for the sound of my own
voice before I lost the accent,
the mud for my father’s approval.
When I was a boy, and the sickness
took her, my mother would howl
late into the night, me lying
in the dark, listening to the animal
that had gotten in, waiting for it
to find me and feed. I’m not trying
to complain. Lots of my friends
had much harder lives than I
until they died. She asks why
I’m here, and I say I’m buying time.
I’m tired. I’m going to kill myself,
but I can’t today. I have an
appointment. Give me a decade.
Help me find the strength, somehow
to last that long. Not that I’m implying
in any way that it would be your
fault. She nods, and I’m grateful
for her so obviously practiced
sincerity; the last thing I need
is to fling a craving on some
body. Here is a list of ways I’ve
tried to die. Water, wind, a bullet’s
kiss, the things of the world
I’ve swallowed. I’ve got so much
going for me, I can barely stand.
This is why I don’t own a gun.
Do you drink or do drugs? She asks.
That’s a kind of trust exercise
with the world I’m not prepared
to take, I say. The only thing
I remember about my mother’s smell
is urine. Maybe, if I could’ve
saved her, I could forgive myself
for still being alive. But forgiveness
is a myth; eventually, you just
forget to be angry. Let’s not talk
about me anymore. She says,
Okay Here’s an exercise. I want you
to write about your trauma.
When that’s done, I want you
to run as far away from it as you
can. And then have a snack or soothe
yourself in some way. I can hear rain
outside as I type this, working on
its aim. Maybe I’ll order pizza.
***
Some Thoughts on Moonflowers
Skitterings in the night, like
bristly feet and dripping teeth.
I am not butter, I don’t
care what the pamphlets say.
You may not fry anything in me.
Magic lacks melatonin, which
is why it hides from the sun.
Ask anyone who knows.
Shadows. Moving lights.
If all the evil could shut
the fuck up that would be
great. I’m trying to die, here.
My head hurt for days because
I couldn’t afford to keep up
with my meds. Don’t tell me
it’s about anything other than
greed.
It’s always raining somewhere
n mi hart. *tap tap*
Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.
Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.
Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.
When I go on meds, I can’t see anything
inside my head, so I have to write
to have thoughts.
It’s about keeping myself safe because
the squeaky wheel gets evicted.
On a scale of one to ten tell me how
Capitalism is treating you today.
The first two don’t count.
These nights when I’m waiting to be
recycled, I think about the warmth
of your body in my arms
and remember there was a time
however brief
I didn’t feel alone.
haha no take backs.
***
Mary Oliver
I’m supposed to tell you a story
to make you forget how sad it is
you’re going to die without having
enjoyed most of your life. Well, okay.
Nature is a good start, like how these
little gray birds roll in the dust on
a path outside my apartment, avoiding
the broken glass, stray cats. They do
it because their bodies make too much
oil, which is good for helping them be
aerodynamic, but not when it’s too much.
This is a metaphor for how adaptations
often overwhelm our lives. But it’s also
about birds, so Mary Oliver can eat it.
But not really, because she’s really good,
if you’re the kind of person who can
afford a garden. I still need a joke, though.
They’re hard, especially in poetry, which
is supposed to be too pretentious to laugh
at itself. Here’s one my daughter is working
on:
Knock knock.
(Who’s there.)
Doorbell repairperson.
(Doorbell repairperson who?)
Ding dong.
She’s still working on it. She’s eight.
Don’t be so fucking judgmental.
***
Remember the Lightning and Her Sister Darla
Back then, the world existed in 4 minute slices,
radio friendly, and capable of being shined
with the right spit. We never listened to
the words because we trusted the censors, not
realizing they were dying like the rest of us.
Pastries tasted like sugar, and funny colors
didn’t matter in a beverage. This morning,
I dumped out my leftover intentions in
the parking lot so I could recycle the cup. Maybe
a flower was trying to grow from that concrete.
I followed a man to the stairs—give me
the confidence of an old man in shorts
and sandals, black socks worn without irony,
and an overwhelming need to chat with strangers.
I was never that unable to question others’ desire
for my company, and I have mania. Inside,
everything is animal, including my shirt. Every
day, I forget the color of the sky until I sneak
out and ask someone. Most times, they look
from one to the other and shrug. I finally
petitioned to get a screen put up. It flashes “blue
and sometimes gray” from dawn until dusk.
I still ask because I don’t like to believe. Back
then, the sky was always forgetting me. Lightning
asked my name at parties, so it knew who to avoid.
Now, I see it on my morning commute. Ugly
tie and khakis. Sleeveless blouse the wrong
color for its skin. Its sister Darla got married
and divorced a long time ago. She’s back
from the coast, but no one seems to know
which one. Kids and debt. When I catch the last
elevator with the lightning, it’s shaking its head,
shocked at the state of things, like us all.
Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue: https://medium.com/@howtoeven Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.
