On a Friday night
I have a date with
my guitar
a bundle of weed
and all my insecurity
because in the afternoon
I was bound by frail family
to their service
and in the morning I felt
every twinge of my chronic diseases
I need to get back to the doctor
but I can’t make myself go
because of what they might tell me
and I can’t let my family go
because of what they might call me
while we’re at it
I am only surreptitiously fighting the beasts
who are owning the world right now
I ought to buy a gun
to kill a fascist
but I know
my hands make me a terrible shot
unless the gun is pressed
against my head
I do the research
compile names
addresses and hatreds
but who is going to care
among my gentle friends
who are sure that love will conquer all
once they are bulldozed
into the poisoned earth
I need to seize the guitar
the way I used to hold my pen
before I stopped writing poems
in favor of playing guitars
with these broken hands
full of dead nerves that hate me
as I have grown to hate so much
all I want is one good touch
all I want to love is one good person
but instead I fear the voice inside saying
fuck black brown white
center left and right
America
and the rest of the world
(the dolphins too)
and all the love the great unknown holds tight
instead of letting it flow
I want to hold my guitar
and play it loud
drown out the butchers
claiming my dying ears
for their own
singing me hemorrhage songs
drawing me into their arms
I’m tired of you if you think this is
remotely a good poem
remotely a prayer
can’t see this is a wound opening with a hiss
once cherished blood
(yours and mine) flowing out
on a Friday night
you ought to
thank God for this guitar
in my hands
which is not at all a gun