worn-out/exhausted after a day of weak climbing she sits on the bus watching the people, particularly the teens going home from school in their god-awful tracky outfits and stupid unflattering haircuts and finds herself remembering sitting in 9th Grade English class, staring at the headlice climbing through the oversprayed starchy hair topping the oh-so-most-popular-girl’s head - watching horrified, filled with glorified as-yet-unnamed-feeling: Schadenfreude. what was that word, she asks herself, for when your idealism shatters beneath the crushing realization that not only will all your dreams not come true but most of those you’ve childishly coddled failed to mature by your own lack of effort rather than an inherent unattainability. it could have been different. it could change. you could start any day you wanted. and yet, what won the night before and the night before that? meeting to feed the homeless? cleaning up the dirty parks? or dinner and the movie? and tomorrow? saving baby seals? girlfriend in a coma, i know i know it’s serious.

what happened to writing your own book? can you not see what of what’s going on is interesting? the struggles to change behavior, to hush and stop bugging, to build strength of body and strength of character; but also, the slow dawning realization of relase from the bygone times of being socially manipulated by amoral friends. relax, enjoy the freedom of their absence and be glad to be rid of it. [which is not exactly a fair statement since the vetmed GEPs are as competitive and cruel as any high school students. rumor has it one of the "Jude Law look-alike if Jude was tall" harem, being outrageously possessive of his attention as they all are, stabbed someone with a fork to stop her from talking to him. so i guess it doesn't matter - crazy is as crazy does.]
(edited 13:16 05/10/06)

Note to a Pine Ridge Girl
Who Can No Longer Read
I keep dreaming these dreams
where I lose you, literally lose
you like misplaced car keys
and wake up sweating and
call and cuss, mutter for you
to reveal yourself, not in dream
but in my wide-awake frustration.
Thank God my closest neighbors
are simple Hmong who think all
Americans are crazed cannibals.
Ah, sweet mumbling darling,
I’ve been offered a great job
far from these mindless Plains
at a white castle of utmost
pay and supreme prestige.
Oh love, what are we to do?
A decade of intense meds
has made your face puffy.
I don’t look any better, but
you cannot talk—little light
breaks in your eyes when I visit.
The wasicu staff tells me your
chanli will now be cut off
because you keep putting
the lit end in your mouth.
Pain and indignity floods
our being and our memory.
I can’t tell you how many times
we’ve sat holding hands while
you’ve dirtied your diapers.
Two of your toes have curled
into claws—two of your fingers
did until they chopped them off.
God forgive me for okaying that.

When I catch your attention
and stand before you and do
the twist, you sometimes still
smile crazily, my little one.
That you smile at my dance
of tears is enough, my love.
Dearest woman, that is enough.
That is all I need. That’s plenty.
Forgive me once and again
for thinking only of myself.
Everything is clear now and
I will not be crawling away to
some new life at this late date.
I’ll keep playing the game
for the paycheck and
you, my love—
eternal.

Adrian C. Louis
New Letters
Art & the Elements
Vol. 72, Nos. 3 & 4

3 Responses to “it’s national poetry day”

1. Lisa Says:
   October 6th, 2006 at 5:46 am

   Can we say Cosmic Demotion with a smear of Weltschmerz covered in oily teenage angst?

2. Gary Says:
   October 6th, 2006 at 9:02 am

   I thought you hated poetry?

3. barecca Says:
   October 9th, 2006 at 7:49 am

   Quite right, Gary! LOL. Nice to call me on my B.S. =0

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