make believe

Poems are nothing if not truthful terrorists,
and tremendous liars. My words are puppets
I construct for you, tear apart for you, clocks
I stop so I can speak to you, galaxies I tear
apart just so I can see a bruise.

I like writing, and I do it
because there's all these
horrible things I think and
if I said them outside of a poem
you would know with a certainty
that I was insane.

I imagine splitting apart your irises
and climbing into your infinite pupils.
Would they lead me to another world?
Would you allow me to kiss your retina?
I've pressed against bones and carved into
them with stones, but all because the little boy
with the broken recorder looked so, so sad.
His hands were dirty from catching frogs
with his bare hands when he was four,
and in a few more years, he'd leave
his house, fleeing the door, go to
the store and spill out all his
secrets to an old man.
When he called him
a freak, he felt,
feeling quite
bleak, and
threw himself
off the bridge.

His little brother asked why the fridge
was always empty after that, and why his mama
always looked so, so sad.

A few years back, they announced
on the news that analog television would
be shut off. I sat on the floor, in front of the
television, dumbfounded. It scared me terribly.
I thought of all the elderlies who didn't
understand television, and who were
on shitty, low-paying retirement
funds. They couldn't pay
to switch over, and when
they looked on their screen
and only saw static, what else
were they to do? Their hips were bad.
Their minds were weary and sad. And we're
taking all of this away from them.

I think about this. I make up stories
about the people driving the car next to me,
and how their music is up high because they, too, are numb.
And maybe they've tasted the metallic filter
of a gun, pressed in their mouth, threatening
to slide into their throat. With their blood, they
could build a moat. Too bad they don't own a boat.

I build pictures in my mind,
with words like swords and fingers like beggars
on the streets. Please, help me. I don't want to be
out of work, and I don't want to starve. I've built cities in
my head, and strained to read billboards, and everything
I've tried hasn't been working. I repeat the processes. I think
if I make the perfect door for you, you're bound to open it eventually.

Hello. Welcome to Hell.
I'm sorry I brought you here,
but let's burn together.