I have been
called
many things

a bastard
lunatic
mutant
devious Jesus

liar
criminal
fuckup
screwball punk

but the best was
one time
walking in late to a lecture
on the first day of class
the professor stopped and said,

“Mr. Rosewater
what a surprise
it is to see you
and on the first day of class, too.”

(they always thought
I was playing hooky.
they never knew
and they never will.)

I smiled wide like a whale
and bid her good morning
as she said to the class
(here it comes)
“Class, I would like to
introduce you to

The Iconoclast,”

and I made my way
grinning
hideously
to the back of the room
to the only empty seat
and sat down
regally
a ragged king
on his plastic throne.

the ones who didn’t know
weren’t sure what to think
but the ones who knew
were dripping fear.

they just waited
all nerves
as I sat there
smoldering
patiently
winding up
my wrecking ball.

(Originally published in The Perch)

you see
my heart has been doing backflips
and tightrope walks
for the last two weeks
but not for your pleasure
not for your applause

you see
i have finally met them

they are not blind
not yet
but they do not recognize me
when they look into my eyes

they do not understand
me
at all

and i can hear the breeze
humming softly

do not build there
my love
do not build there

even though
we know
i must

there are people alive today
who found it on their first try

people who married their childhood sweetheart

people who somehow happened so early
upon the point of love
in this rotting haystack

can you imagine that kind of luck

the improbability of it is so striking
like finding air in a vacuum

I cannot believe it

but there are people
who insist that it is true

I wonder if those people ever felt
a day of disappointment
in their gracefully implausible lives

because I am dashing
headlong
into my fourth decade

and I have not found another soul
who was living their life
like it was a compassionate
bank robbery

and I had always thought that by now
I would have an accomplice

someone to shout
in a voice more musical than my own

EVERYBODY ON THE FLOOR, PLEASE
THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A SECOND

I wonder what kind of lives
those first-love people
must lead

simple
I suppose

lucky
certainly

I do not know

whatever the case
may be
I just know
that I am struggling
with a strange aching
loneliness
today

still
groping for
that
needle

 

 

I am ill with the music of my self
 and rum and beer
 and the stain of failure

while outside the river softly roars
 the wind sighs in the pines
 and the coyotes in the foothills
 call down the moon

inside an old refrigerator moans
 a mousetrap snaps
 and the radio whispers Spanish guitars

and I perk up my ears
 thinking that I hear again
 beneath the static
 the terrible laughter
 of the gods

yes, I am ill
 with the music of my self
 with the absence of love
 and the impossible justice
 of the cosmos
 as I sit in this dirty kitchen
 and scratch these nonsense lines
 trying my best to ignore
 the breaking of my
 starving
 gentle
 heart