| |
torture
it's the car ahead of you
driving ten miles under
the speed limit
on a crisp, sunny day.
it's a flat tire,
it's a pebble cracking
your windshield
when you're cruising
70 down the interstate.
it's a runny nose,
coughing,
it's your joints aching,
and it's your constant
lust for sleep.
it becomes your bank account,
it becomes the way people
speak to you,
the way they talk down to you,
it becomes
your co-workers,
it becomes
your ex-girlfriends who call you,
drunk,
at 3 a.m. when you're in bed
with someone else.
when the sun sets before 5
i feel tortured--tortured
when the alarm blasts off
each morning--tortured
when the music ends,
when the books are burnt
& the bars are closed,
tortured--I hear the wind
howl through the trees
on nights like these
where the hours dissolve
and before you know,
it's tomorrow.
© Justin Reynolds
from the deathbed of a genius
there is always
more than meets the eye.
we're not transformers,
but for the most part,
we're close.
you could find jimmy rey
sitting in the corner of a sushi joint
scribbling words on the back
of the sheet you use
to order that raw shit,
but just because he don't take
kindly to the razor
doesn't mean
he couldn't tell you
about the presidencies of polk
or arthur
or anything you'd like to know
about a man named vincent
who saw too much
and figured his best bet
was to end it all
in a wheat field.
yesterday,
i turned on jeopardy
& one of the categories
was american lit.
the $2,000 question (what is. . .answer?)
talked about
an author
and booze and post offices
and we know the answer (what is. . .question?)
but none of them did.
i'd take the two large,
tell trebek to fuck himself
in latin and german and french and klingon,
and fire it off to student loans
or go to atlantic city
and throw that shit down on red.
i'm taking all my anger out
to dinner
and after a night of caviar, lobster
tails and blue label,
she'll be nice and loose,
nice and happy,
the opportune time to smack that bitch
across the face,
flip her over
and show her the futility of wrath.
i am transforming,
i am a precipice,
i will stick a periscope
up your ass
just so i can get a good look
at what a heart
that has strangled itself
and
is in denial
looks like.
i can't wash the scent
of dog
off my hands,
but it's more pleasant
than what greed smells like,
i don't own many clothes
i am constantly hungry
perpetually thirsty
and have yet to taste
the drink that clenches
the palate best,
i sit among stooges,
thinking,
how do these people
talk about these things?
thinking,
i can't believe i can still
write in cursive.
but the minute hand keeps trying
to fuck the hour hand,
it is getting closer,
now it pounces,
but the hour hand
only goes for missionary
once in awhile,
he doesn't have all day.
under the right circumstances,
i'd materialize a pitcher of sangria
snap my fingers
and there we'd be,
skipping stones across still water
& watching cities burn,
but it's just not the same anymore,
the tattoo inside my chest
is dissappearing,
the clocks kills
what once were pleasant memories,
i am comforted by fresh air and sunlight
but am forced to spend
the better part of the day indoors,
this is just how it is,
this is just how it will be,
i can just take a deep breath
and warm myself with a mantra.
huddled up in a corner, staring at
the floor or ceiling,
i'm whispering:
la tristesse durera toujours *
© Justin Reynolds
* translation: The sadness will always endure.
|
