1995
Got to America on July 3.
Kurt was dead. Someone
called me a virgin who can’t drive.
The boys wore Vans and pretended
to be skaters. The girls pastel
sweaters and plaid skirts
I never looked at but thought
I could rock. Later. Yeah later.
See you. As if. Whatever. I was
a murdered angel for Halloween.
Blond Chris was a football player.
Travis was Jesus. The night
Blond Chris choked me I thought
I would die. I said, yeah.
That’s good. Keep going.
Just fucking end me.
Travis’s mom wanted to fuck
Bill Clinton. She quizzed us
on the Presidents (capital P)
and every time we forgot
she’d say, Okay. Now again
and from the beginning.
In order! Alright. Jesus.
I had all of Hole’s
Live Through This
in my head.
I didn’t have room
for the presidents, sorry.
Though you know,
I never forgot JFK.
Must be the face.
Must be a Catholic.
Must have been November
when Blond Chris
asked me the only
real question anyone’s
asked me on Earth.
The number one song
in America was Fantasy.
I threw up my lunch
every day around 12:33.
What do you want to be,
he said after school by the track.
I don’t know, I said.
What do you want to be?
Blond Chris wanted
to be a football player.
I wanted to start a band.
Like Nirvana, he said.
No, like Jesus, I told him.
The years passed.
We still talked.
I grew out my hair.
Blond Chris got a girlfriend.
The fantasy ended.
He broke his arm
and had to sit out the season.
I found Rimbaud
and decided it was
better than bands.
Because in a band
you still have to
talk to people.
Because I already knew
how to do this.
I knew what poetry was.
I was always alone.
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You are making me a poetry lover. Thank you.
I love this one! It’s a very frank poem!