THE SIZE AND SHAPE OF ALL THINGS ROLLING - Buddy Wakefield

By the time my fingernails had split
and cut their way back in 
toward the knuckle grit

I had already chewed these teeth
clear down to the dirty nubs
from chattering about how hard I hit bottom again

how far I had to climb up out of it
shovel myself off and start over
been doing that long as I can remember

as if it were my calling
as if my name were Helter Skelly
rising from falls I keep taking in vain

just for a reason to stand here, 
looking like another loose jawbone
hinged on a tilt-a-whirl. 

The question was, 

If god can do anything,
can he can make a rock so big
that even he can’t lift it? 

The answer is  

Yes, all he has to do
is commit
to defeating himself.

Untitled - Unknown

When you finally forget her,

she’s standing in the kitchen.

She thinks it’s something in the water, and it is.

Her hands stop moving,

coming to a standstill in those rubber gloves

she seems to wear like armor.

And she looks out the window.

And she takes a breath, turns off the water

and goes to sleep.

And in the morning,

she wakes up

and makes you breakfast without a word.

Even when you break the plate.

Because you don’t remember the last time you were sober

and the lines between desperate and despise

start to blur come sunrise,

so you’re never awake to see it.

And it’s her fault, really.

After all these years she still can’t cook the eggs right,

still can’t shut up the baby.

Still can’t cover up bruises quite right

so it’s her fault when the questions come, really.

What were you supposed to do.

For her, it was a quiet affair,

she washed the dishes and made you dinner and

poured whiskey till her hands shook.

And she let you slip away.

Put the baby to bed and just let you slip away.

You’ll never forgive her for that.

But what about the kids.

They all say it, they all knew before either of you did.

But what about the kids, and all the time,

what about all that time,

and wouldn’t it just be better to stick it out.

Just hold on.

Just til Christmas and then we think about the broken glass

and the doors that don’t lock. Just wait til Christmas.

And what was she supposed to do.

Let the devil keep writing messages in the mirror?

Let the kids find out?

Let her traitorous hands burn the place down?

So she just pours you a whiskey.

And she waits til Christmas.

And the kids don’t find out.

And the house stays unburnt.

And she wears her rubber gloves like armor.

Like maybe you can’t touch her

if she’s washing the dishes.

And eventually you forget her.

She takes a breath.

And puts the baby to sleep.

And she lets you.

To Myself - Franz Wright

You are riding the bus again

burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,

the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.

And I am with you.

I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance

(in one of those rooms we are

living) and I am the rain

and the others all

around you, and the loneliness you love,

and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,

the nicotine crawling on your skin—

and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,

and if you vomit this time I will hold you:

everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.

It won’t always be like this.

I am going to buy you a sandwich.

Alcohol - Franz Wright

You do look a little ill.

But we can do something about that, now.

Can’t we.

The fact is you’re a shocking wreck.

Do you hear me.

You aren’t all alone.

And you could use some help today, packing in the

dark, boarding buses north, putting the seat back and

grinning with terror flowing over your legs through

your fingers and hair . . .

I was always waiting, always here.

Know anyone else who can say that?

My advice to you is think of her for what she is: one

more name cut in the scar of your tongue.

What was it you said, “To rather be harmed than

harm is not abject.”

Please.

Can we be leaving now.

We like bus trips, remember. Together

we could watch these winter fields slip past, and

never care again,

think of it.

I don’t have to be anywhere.

"I’m looking for something to scare me out of my skin" - Henry Rollins

I’m looking for something to scare me out of my skin

I’m following myself

Playing jokes on myself

Injecting myself with nightmares

I wait in dark corners to jump out and scare myself

I’ve got to get away from myself

THE MAN WHO NEVER LOSES HIS BALANCE - Stephen Dunn

He walks the high wire in his sleep.

The tent is blue, it is perpetual

afternoon. He is walking between

the open legs of his mother

and the grave. Always. The audience knows this

is out of their hands. The audience

is fathers whose kites are lost, children

who want to be terrified into joy.

He is so high above them, so capable

(with a single, calculated move)

of making them care for him

that he's sick of the risks

he never really takes.

The tent is blue. Outside is a world

that is blue. Inside him

a blueness that could crack

like china if he ever hit bottom.

Every performance, deep down,

he tries one real plunge

off to the side, where the net ends.

But it never ends.

Healing Hermann Hesse - Buddy Wakefield

Hermann wants to eat nicotine sometimes. He asks

for a lot. He paces space to make himself nervous

because some people are better at surviving than

living. If you wanna get heavy he'll teach you. He

knows it. Spends his time falling from the weight.

Got a lead brain. It's a battle magnet. He carries it

around by the guilt straps. Don't laugh. You didn’t

see the size of the blizzard that birthed him. Fits

of snow. Cotton rocks. Whipped white bullet stretches

pinned with chips of teeth to his habit of crying for help.

He doesn't land well. Hates landing. It reminds him of not

living up.

Listen.

I know there were days you wanted to die.

Days you misplaced all the right words then waited

to make sense once everyone here stopped watching.

Nights you let them beat up your body in bed

because redemption was still alive in you howling.

Uncompromising.

Gathering strength.

Happiness

is too far to fall.

Felt like ecstasy

when they pounded it out of you.

Those days of dead weather high strung out together

and spoke for you.

You told everyone here it was a good life,

smiled and waved back into the wails of your wind fight,

into the parts of the past that haunt you,

all the days you weren’t being yourself.

It’s why most of the past

still haunts you,

Milk Worder,

Mr. Self Murder.

Hiding is not an option for people

so good at showing up. You show up.

It is okay that you showed up missing.

We’ve all abused ourselves

then looked over

the wrong shoulder about it.

Call it Fatherlock.

You were picked like this.

I know you hate the hope.

It’s all the hope that makes you stay.

And you stay so far off the ground.

Hermann will not bow down to gravity. Falling

he catches up to himself midair just before the ground

smacks. Pullthroat, they call’im. Sharp turner. Nothing

touches the ground here.  Ground is at capacity.

He sees that. He falls back. He patches parachutes

together with a kite knife.  It's big enough to raise him

in the updrafts where he hides himself away in angles

of air outlined by his knack for believing that this life

is gonna work itself out.

LETTER TO A LOST FRIEND - RICHARD SHELTON

War, trade, religious debts to discharge, these are mostly the reasons

for men’s distant journeyings: but you take pleasure in distant journeys

without reason.                                                               – St.-John Perse

we do not realize what we want

until we learn

what we are willing to give up for it

and you did God knows you did

when swimming was no longer possible

you learned to sink you learned

to live at the bottom of the sea

now tell me of the chambers where you sleep

tell me it does not matter

lie if you must

is your bed luminous is it festooned

with seaweed do all your narrow windows

open onto water

is the tide kind to you

forgive me if I do not understand

last night a stranger asked me what

gives you most pleasure and before I thought

I answered her revenge

PARTY - Andrea Gibson

I was 13 the first time

I drank so much the bugs stopped.

A high school party

at Chrissy Olden’s house,

a senior, whose mom worked overnights

at the truck stop and embarrassed the customers

by not being embarrassed to lose

a solid 10 minutes

rambling over the register

about who wrote what in her yearbook

in 1971.

I was sitting in the middle

of the living room

on a corduroy couch

telling Katie Mathews,

the only other 8th grader there,

something about the temperature of music.

Somewhere there was a DJ

holding his finger under the faucet

of the party.

Every few minutes

I’d be handed a bottle of something

that razored my tonsils all the way down.

If someone had told me

it was nail polish remover

I would have believed them

but I would not have stopped drinking

the red off of my heart.

Do you remember

the first time you knew you

were absolutely safe?

I stumbled into the bathroom

and locked the door behind me

so I could smile as wide as I had to

without anybody knowing I had to.

The mirror was caked with Aqua Net.

There was enough hair in the sink

to mistake the drain for a pet.

The last person who had vomited

in the toilet had missed the toilet.

A year prior, just before my grandfather

swallowed the worm of his life,

he leaned his yellow face into my terrified eyes

and made me promise to Never

go near the bottle.

Nobody had to tell me

that booze was a terrible way to die.

But this was a party,

and I was person for the very first time.

You won’t know what I mean

unless you’ve been there too.

The bugs drowned till morning.

Say what you want about addiction.

I pulled the hair out of the drain with my hands.

I took it home.

I gave it a name.

"To me, she's not even human, she's some kind of a germ." - Henry Rollins

To me, she’s not even human, she’s some kind of a germ. A concoc-

tion. She is neurotic, nasty and abusive. Pathetic is a word that

springs to mind. When she is loud and drunk, it’s torture being

around her. She treats marijuana like some life preserving drug. She

is most lively when she has a chance to get fucked up. Whenever

she’s spazzing out and drooling over pot, I think to myself, “coke

whore” but I change the word “coke” to pot. She doesn’t bathe much

and sometimes the stench can be quite noxious. I don’t like being

associated with her because I see how nasty she is with people who

I work with. When she comes into a room, I either leave or try to get

out of earshot of her. I hope she goes on her painful little way and

leaves my sight. Not a bone in me hates that girl. She has managed

to turn off everyone around her. She sure did it to me. I never set out

to feel like that, no way. Now it’s at the point where it’s totally

irreversible.

"I'm in the hot room again" - Henry Rollins

I'm in the hot room again

I am a time junkie

I am a user

Like all addicts, I come to the point where I ask myself

Who's using who

I take a look around and I see what I do

I look in the mirror and I see what it's doing to me

And I come to the conclusion that we got a pretty good thing going

"She's kind of druggie." - Henry Rollins

She's kind of druggie. On again off again. The times when she's on,

she's on. She's bumming on having to come down. When she's off,

she's talking about getting on. She's not an addict, it's an on again,

off again kind of thing. You know, like those “heroin weekends”

people go for, meth runs, etc. You know what I'm talking about. She

pulls an apple cart, the driver has a stick with an apple on a string,

he dangles it in front of her nose. She sees a syringe, the needle

shines. She likes the word “spike.” The needle is a lover, she likes

the words “doing a dime.” The needle is boss, the needle is her best

friend. If she says, “Tie me off, lover” one more time I'll scream.

Certain Choices - Richard Shelton

My friend, who was a heroin addict,

is dead and buried beneath trash

and broken bottles in a prison field.

He died, of course, because of the way

he lived. It wasn’t a very good way,

but it kept him alive. When it couldn’t

keep him alive any longer, it killed him.

Thoroughly and with great suffering.

After he had made certain choices,

there were no others available. That’s

the way it is with certain choices,

and we are faced with them so young.

I have few friends, and none of them

are replaceable. That’s the way it is

with friends. We make certain choices.