You forget
I was born
and raised
as the always wrong
forever 
apology. It can’t
be helped that

I default a 
thousand
times a day
to regret and 
guilt. Not to say
shame because

with shame I might
correct the 
always wrong and
close the forever
apology but

this way I can 
boast of my unashamed
malfunctions. I can
be right by always 
being wrong. You

forget how potent
such contradictions
can be. The forever
apology as 

article of faith, the 
always wrong as 
myth or miracle, 
parable of the guilty
conscience for no
reason. You forget

how long I’ve lived
on this, what a religion
it has been. How large
its god looms. How difficult
apostasy can be to achieve —

how satisfying
the guilt involved in that 
might be.

Here I am in the morning
with a head full of ricochet
and fragments tearing through.
Or so I imagine because this morning

there was a gun in the news 
and all I can do after hearing that
is choose where on my head 
I’d put the muzzle if I had one. If tomorrow 

there’s a bomb, I’ll be thinking
of putting a bomb in my own belly; if
there’s a knife, I’ll be sticking
myself full of little cuts.  

Some people say: Stop watching,
do better. Stop putting yourself
into other people’s skin.
Let them have their own hides

and all that goes with them.
Leave them their space.
Do you, do only you.
Keep to your own lane.

My own lane is a mess
and when I watch the news I seem to end up
somewhere else 
that is somehow also my own lane

and I can’t turn off this road
even if I turn off the TV.
I can’t be more sorry
for feeling me and only me:

I only know
two ways to stop it.
One is by writing what you’re reading.
The other is to do what you’re reading about.

Stop making it 
about you.
Stop centering yourself
in the narrative — believe me, I understand.

All I’m trying to do
is put enough into the center
to cut myself
out of the target for good.