I want to say this gets graphic in couple of spots so perhaps I should warm of TRIGGERS.
XXX N. Hubbardís Lane/ 5:32 P.M./ 3-7-2013/ Middle-aged Caucasian Male/Suicide Poem
I canít help thinking each suicide
is the result of a terribly sad moment
of impossibly tightly raveled confusion.
That this confusion is borne fourth
on something like an intercontinental wind
that is worldwide, that never ceases
to travel about the populated globe
that is the globe that makes smallness of mountains.
I canít help thinking each terribly sad moment
delves deeply like stark trunks of trees
into the hidden gray-black clay of this Kentucky hill,
this razed strip of the forest floor given up to a road.
That it winds about in there like magic, really,
if we allow that magic is what we know to be
though it does so in its way, invisibly.
I canít help thinking, often angrily,
the confusion is raveled up like a coat
on an old country rack of stained pine;
a sturdy study of bygone simplicity.
I canít help thinking of that family law judge in Texas
who beat his handicapped daughter mercilessly
because his tee-off was wide of the green or his peers
didnít appreciate him enough or his wife
never learned the proper technique of blow jobs;
a man of self-righteousness and law, who looks down
on the likes of me, poor and immature- a felonious poet.
I canít help thinking of child raping priests,
paid men of God who believe no more in God
than do the starving children of a refugee
trying to decide whether to venture out into
the morbid border cold for what might not even be food
and risk their fingertips, their toes, the tip of the nose,
the bonfire of the company of others starving too.
I canít help thinking of lost little girls from Tennessee
venturing to California to get all their holes plugged up
by bronze statues of men with huge gorgeous cocks
while being filmed and still I canít grow my own weed
lest helicopters fly in and men who were the bullies in high school
get to wave badges and steal privacy like its
a threat to be screamed out into a crowded hallway-
something for others to witness and measure in a casual laugh.
I canít help thinking that the Crimes Against Children Unit
of the Metro Louisville Police Department is too busy
to return phone-called notices of a pedophile
from their understaffed smelly office
while four blocks from where I sit
six uniformed officers stand around the Speedway coffee.
I canít help thinking of men who own half a dozen homes,
twice as many luxury cars, suits too good for an ancient Egyptian king
and they begrudge that someone might want to see
a doctor for that ache in the abdomen
thatís been there since two weeks after he got let go
from the downsizing, the fiscally conservative restructuring
of a handshake with China.
I canít help thinking that there are men
who somehow incredibly find the bright side of rape
and that Iíd love to shove, hard and cold, a shaft
rigid with lava-hot veins right up their assholes
and, still, it is me who is dumbfounded, left struck mute
it is me trying to find the vulnerable spot in the knot,
the little arc turned like a frightened weevil
about the central thread where I might
clamp the pinchers of two nails and grasp
what went in for good and back it out oh-so-slightly,
give it a little breathing room, a kerf for the spot of sunlight
to come through and make you forget
for a hopeful little second that
ď you canít write a good poem about aught toĒ.
I canít help thinking that the confusion
is, at its root, the overvaluing of the opinions of others:
the misunderstanding that the wealthy are all gracious,
that the beautiful are all incredible lovers,
that the educated are all enlightened and wise
and that elected leaders know where the fuck to go.
I canít help thinking each sad unnecessary
rendering of oneís own final breath
is this confusion manifest into
its only knowable solution
for those who yield too much
to the dubious and collective will
emanating from mankindís evil indifference
and the indifferent evil therein thankful to thrive
and still and still and still, this world and this world:
This world which belongs to gentle souls
though they be the ones who feel its weight.