Sometimes, you know the real reason, But you still can’t be the one to say it You know well why they did the thing, But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all
It must come from within, in its season On some level, they know but won’t admit The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call
By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out No matter how obvious it may be to you If you spell it all out, simple and plain They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy
Some fall deep into the well of doubt, Won’t do what the heart most wants to do They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain Things that love, and are loved, destroy
Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror, Admitting mistakes, the need to change, They’ll rake themselves over hot coals To keep everyone happy, all but the self
Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer Regardless of how unnecessarily strange They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf
You want so badly to explain it in detail You know their truth even better than they If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied You want to scream, draw them a diagram
If you say it for them, your intentions fail Suspicious of the things you do and say Fear, manipulations; you must have lied Some play the willing sacrificial lamb
It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence Than admit what it is they want the most Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream
And their beautiful vision dies in violence While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure Hold the anchor and let go of the dream
discount buggers, sitting too short in the saddle to catch any light
but, far too tall to be dead things, since dead things don’t sit tall in saddles
not quite full-fledged maniacs, lacking in the forthright candor of more honest lunatics
mockeries of invisible garbage
pieces you can’t quite sort from all the other forgeries
ii.
the easiest lie to tell is always the one that was undisputed, when you told it to yourself
iii.
broken pieces of education, peppered liberally over a plate of wishful thinking
half-truths, fractions of wisdom
chicken scratch cheat sheets in secret breast pockets
decency spent far too many wasted evenings trying to shape a pile of vomit into a snow angel
but, the toothpaste is already out of the inner tube
besides, the inner tubes are all useless now;
the tires were all stolen months ago
there is no sculpting dour secular emptiness into glorious, golden cathedrals
one does not simply turn recidivistic destroyers into genius inventor candy makers, acrobatic violinist movie stars, or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas
thespians of the eternal grift, they have no thirst or pallet for love stories, only tragedy and horror
it is exceedingly difficult to shape small piles of deformed turd nuggets into the colossus
the thing is… if you put a hat over a turd… no one sees a turd; they just see a hat
and, god help the poor bastard who tries to put it on
sprinkle a big pile of rose petals right over top of the whole thing, and you won’t even smell it
but it’s still there
iv.
it’s really not important, what I’m going on about
probably better if you just take a nap through the rest of this
v.
if the impressive would stop trying to elevate the unimpressive then, they’d be more impressive
if they’d stop trying to raise the dead, it would be very impressed, indeed
if the unimpressive would stop trying to decimate the impressive, they’d already be half the way towards making a positive impression
but, none of this is due to change
vi.
seven in the side pocket? my ass
there are four in this room who can make that shot, and you ain’t one of ’em
like I said, it really doesn’t matter what I am babbling about
go back to sleep
or better yet…
there’s a small slip of paper, rolled up around a dull pencil; it’s not a number two pencil, but rather, one of those no-name brands
it’s in the top right drawer of that bureau over there
it’s held in place on the pencil by a rubber band
it’s underneath a pile of old letters and yellowing catalogs
go open the desk drawer, remove the stacks of papers, and pick up the pencil
remove the rubber band, unroll the little slip of paper from off of the pencil, and unfold it
what’s it say?
that’s right, it says,
“Fuck you.”
no, that’s okay, you can keep it; it’s yours
take it with you, and share it with the rest of your kin,
all the other black holes
the liars, fakers, pretenders, predators, thieves, naggers, reality-twisters, dream-stealers, complainers and haters, would-be conquerers of insignificant kingdoms
fighting razor tooth fang nail claw over the right to wear a crown made out of rusty wire coat hangers
or, a tiara crafted from zip ties, and tinsel from last year’s Christmas tree
two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat
the unintelligent, masquerading as geniuses
half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses, unintelligently masquerading as… well, who really cares?
the impolite, leaning on the good manners of those who are too kind to tell you the hot, vibrant, fundamental truth
which is, that you are fundamentally without truth, or heat, or vibrance
I, on the other hand, have misplaced all of my politesse, and have no qualms about sharing these things with you
I don’t recall which drawer I left my good manners in, or what I wrapped around them
but, I can tell you, with great certainty, that I’ve had more than my fill of the full measure of you
I can tell you what you can go get wrapped around
vii.
the steely, red-hot poker of murder in your eyes is only a compliment to me
I would be perturbed, ashamed, if you approved of me
I have no love for your kind
the secret whisperers, rumor starters, terminally restless luddites who shun such newfangled, diabolical technologies as empathy and dedication to things other than self
nonconsensual emotional sadists, pullers of wings from houseflies, slayers of fierce dragons, or rather harmless dragonflies
you are all that is ugly in a world that was already teeming with ugliness
busybody breakers of other people’s toys, ensnarers of time, ambuscaders, ambushers of vitality
there isn’t a pencil on the whole planet that’s dull enough to write your little shit story
there aren’t enough rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs, thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets on Earth to bind you
there aren’t enough iron chains, piano strings, or Mardi Gras beads made out of concertina razor wire to wrap around your neck and throttle you with
nor is there a steamer trunk heavy enough and sturdy enough to fit you into, weight it down with all the barbells in the gym, wrap the whole thing in chains, and toss it off the backside of the ferry, just like Houdini, except, hopefully less skilled at the art of escape
you, who have such a knack for finding beautiful things, and shattering them or, at least, doing your damndest to try
you will find no welcome here
as if you thought any more of yourself, honestly
which of course, you would never be
viii.
news anchor spin games
rewriting history playing both the victim and the hero
convince us, once again, explain to us, what a paragon of virtue you are
I’ll wait.
you are the weeds, choking out beautiful flowers, because you envy them
but, you wouldn’t be happy being a rose
not even if all the work of being a rose was done for you
the moment you actually became a rose, you would instantly become jealous of the orchids
you’d swear that you were being cheated by all those selfish petunias
you’d be stabbing marigolds in the back, shanking them with a bundle of thorns you made in your unlocked prison cell
stealing their soil and their sunlight, telling all the dandelions, honeysuckles, and carnations what terrible, awful creatures the petunias and orchids are
and, all the joy of being a rose would perish
somewhere in the dark, shaded corner of a dry bed of dust where nothing ever grows
Kevin Trent Boswell 