You know those people who make sure to tell you—
the writer of life’s beautiful sewage and its repugnant cherries on top—
“I don’t want you writing about me!”
The ones who do not wish their name
to come up in one of your stories or poems;
the ones who want to make certain nobody knows
about them—about who they are really.
About their dark cave monster zombie dracula
narc/narcoleptic sideshow freakshow—
the one they keep deep undercover,
locked up in slipknots in their basement of,
Not me; no way!
in their windowless dungeon of self—while they dance off to church with their prayers in their eyes
seeing only fears of men
through the eyes of the one who holds them
in a cloud of heavens on high—
pockets wearing no thing
but a holy man’s
Whenever I get asked this of me, the first thing I do is write
their request non-existent,
reversing the bulk of their claim
by writing their monsters loose—
calling those damned hacks as I see them.
It’s not easy being anyone’s savior,
(they really know not what they do).
God knows all I am is
a poor, no pot to piss in,
in a world filled with wired up they’s,
who would never dare wish
their own eyes/pockets/basements,
or what crawls out of their sockets
when they look at another
who sees them
as they are:
the written reflections of one
who will look your guts
dead in the eye
and love you regardless
of your broken human machine
and love you—
love you to death.
© Kristin Reynolds 12 8 2010
Poem 7 of the alchemy series: a series of 11 poems I wrote all at once, and figured I’d put into a series.
I have a feeling Bukowski jumped into my brain for this piece of the puzzle and shook my brain down for spare change.