The tragedy of being smug
clicks in me like quarters in the slot
clanking and settling with a thud.
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I was going to write a poem about the tragedy of being smug
and talk about Katherine Hepburn's father
and the circus
and the people that came to my work
looking to get in
and me turning them away
in my big black sweater and my migraine haughtiness
and how I hated myself for that.
I was going to paint a great painting
on a 30x40 canvas
but it ended up being a mess
I was going to prove that I could write a long poem
by drawing it out like a line in the sand
far and away
a stick in the wet earth
I was going to talk to Nina Simone at the beach
call me crazy but I thought maybe I could
that I had a favor somewhere
I was going to go to Bethlehem but I had a star
stuck in my shoe
a tack really
a shiny little thing
making it hard to walk
I was going to lift more boxes
and show that I was strong
stacking hay bales in the shade of the barn
and burning myself in the sun
that tiny little sunburn to show I am alive
those pained muscels drawn into shape
like Stubbs horses
decomposing in the barn
and Louis the Sun King
and his palace
something
about horsemen
and equine therapy
and Delta Blues and Piedmont Blues
and everyone having their own personality
I was going to die in Gaza
hand on my heart and head at the sky
eyes rolled back
I was going to fist bump the bus driver
for giving me a ride
so late at night
and not looking at me too hard
when I fell asleep
after putting the quarters
into the dollar slot