the truth about poetry

so what I soon discover is all anybody’s really interested in is how miserable you are and how much you’re suffering and what color the sky looks like when you’re lying on the ground next to the toilet staring up at the sky  (taupe wallpaper, yellowing at the creases from the mildew) or how you hold your tears inside you close to the fragile bits of the body: collar bones, rib cages are acceptable, big thighs and thick arms and chins are not. nobody wants to hear about how happy you are. nobody wants to hear you say, hey I’m actually doing pretty good. went to the beach, went to the bar with some friends, we had a few laughs, ha ha ha. shut the hell up you moron, we didn’t pay to hear your successes in life rubbed in our noses like pollen smeared across the windshield. what they want is that feeling you get when you’ve lost aginagainagain, when you sit in the car and stare at all the people around you on their phones or eating or staring dumbly out the window and think what is this world coming to? does anybody make any real connections anymore? and those terrifying dreams you have of running from hands trying to squeeze your neck until bruises come up around the lobes of your ears, like the red speckles berries leave on your fingers and hands and stain even after soap. what they want is for you to break a slab off of the unforgiving cement of grief and lay it thick on your shoulders and stumble around until you fall on someone and hope they can catch it (forewarning: they don’t). maybe it makes us feel good about ourselves to read about other people’s sadness. try it on ourselves, feel wise yet virginal in our martyrdom. i’m rich with emotional depth. i, too, feel sadness, look how unhappy I am! well, I am a diehard patron of this game, but on the other hand, here’s a few things to consider:
big juicy sunrises. the sound of a trumpet. hopscotch scribbled in sidewalk chalk. the smell of clean sheets out of the dryer. the sap of chamomile.
just take those out and hold them in your pocket for a minute.

 

Roadtrip

An hour into the ride and I was already losing my patience.  Jim not only had a seemingly unbreakable habit of interrupting me as soon as I opened my mouth, but also had an affliction in which any song on the radio that played longer than a minute and thirty seconds was not good enough to be listened to. He detested pop music, but hated classic rock. Classical music, he said, would send him into an induced coma in which the haunting faces of Beethoven and Bach laughed maniacally over his body for eternity. However, upon being asked what he did like, my brother replied with an indifferent shrug and a very blasé statement “oh, you know, anything”.
                   Jim had been fickle (yet particular) his entire life. From the day he came out of the womb, he was criticizing something or other. I think somehow we screwed up; forgetting to imply the distinction between arguing and making conversation. We all expected it to be a phase; in middle school we expected the other kids to shut him up when he lectured them on baseball cards. In high school we thought his enemies would kick the shit out of him for constantly picking fights, or what he called “lively debates”. After college came around and no professor had a hand strict enough to frighten him into being polite, we lost hope. We simply began to accept the fact that it was in Jim’s nature to be critical. This unfortunately did not make it easier to be around him, especially when the judgement was inflicted upon us.
               However, this didn’t usually occur. Jim was a die-hard family guy. Growing up, he would always tell me, wide-eyed and voice so earnest,  that he’d “take a bullet” for me. Although his courage for an event that was highly unlikely in our small town was somewhat useless, his intentions were always sincere. He was a good guy, really. And hell, did he love that little boy of his. Some of the family speculated that  it was the name they shared in common that bound them together; but I believed that it was because they were both children at heart.
              “How old is James now?” I asked, glancing at my brother, who was absentmindedly stroking his new five o’clock shadow. Whoever told him it was a good idea to grow a beard was clearly under the influence of something a lot stronger than a cup of coffee. He looked forward.
               “Four now, turning five in February.”
               “That’s soon,” I replied, surprised. The sizeable banks of snow that sat, glaringly bright, on the side of the road seemed more fitting for December. Yet, here we were in the middle of January and still expecting a snowstorm this weekend. Luckily we would make  it to my parents’ house by nightfall, where the wood stove and local snow plows would take good care of us. Jim didn’t answer me.
              Instead he jammed his fingers toward the radio, silencing Bon Jovi with an aggressive jolt. He began punching different stations, all swimming in and out of audible range as we drove farther north. Suddenly he angrily slammed the radio with the palm of his hand, shutting it off altogether.
              “Jesus Christ, James, what was that all about?” I chided, leaning over to push his hands off the stereo. He sat, pulling his hands into his laps, head bent like a sulking teenager. I’d seen that sunken silhouette too many times in my life to ignore it. I glanced at him again; watching him rub his temples, wincing. I opened my mouth to speak, but he interjected before I could say anything.
              “Sharon–” he began, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat gruffly and tried again. “Sharon and I are getting a divorce.”