1995

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.