Some of my
so-called friends
are in truth
proud to be bullets
resting in chambers
waiting
to bark and
bite me, and I
am unable
to offer any defense
except that
I do not want to die —
at least
not like this —
staring you down,
forever expecting
the worst of you,
fearing
you’ll pierce me
in the name of
something
you pretend
is love.
I think my life
has been a campaign
of scorched earth
except that I burned
what was before me,
and thus walked
into these barrens
fully aware
of what was coming,
feeling somehow
that all the pain
was required of me
in order to illustrate for some
what not to do,
how not to live.
My life was never
my own, and happiness
was not for me except
in short bursts
which were meant
to make me hurt more
when they were inevitably
blown away.
Call me what you want —
insane, mad, depressed,
evil, deluded, wrong,
wrong, wrong —
I will agree
but only because such labels
comfort you,
not me,
never me.
Texas bluesmen,
we used to say, were the
sharply dressed
razor laser player exceptions
to our rule —
the worse they dress,
the better they play —
said rule exemplifed
one night in our local club
by Wayne Bennett,
master of strings for Bobby Blue Bland,
playing with a pickup band,
destroying us with his hollowbody
while dressed in non matching
polyester plaid pants and jacket.
Texas bluesmen dressed better,
played well, played really well,
but Wayne Bennett was better —
Wayne Bennett, from Oklahoma.
That night Wayne Bennett
in mismatched jacket and pants
looked right at me,
chewed gum
and nodded while he played
“Stormy Monday.”
I’ve dressed terribly
ever since,
still hoping for
that non-Texan lightning
to strike me
though I’m starting to believe
that clothes don’t always
make the man.
Dark Matter 