Misfit Toys

mike's latest cry for help


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Misfit Toys
My friend Dave
read a page of my novel-in-progress,
set it down,
and frowned
Stop jerkin’ off the ghost of Joseph Campbell,
get your tongue out of James Joyce’s ass
and find a center already.
I have, I said, it’s just--
never held
Quotin’ dead poets is for pussies, he said.
I got up from the chair,
flipped my Olsen Twins’ calendar to June,
circled the 1st--there’s my center asshole
when the carnies come to town I’m joinin’
I’m gonna stink like cabbage and be real,
I’ll work the guess my weight booth,
or the basketball game where the hoop’s too small,
or the ring around the bottle gig
I’ll give the winners a goldfish in a little baggie
that’ll die before they get home
or maybe
I’ll write poems on napkins for beer
like everyone else
but at least I’ll feel--
Be real, he said. That’s not your center.
I’ll meet new chicks in new towns
I’ll become confident,
Revise what I tell of my past till the new persona sticks,
till I actually believe it--
When do the tears start? he said



Right then, they did.
He just smoked and worked
on his crossword for ten minutes
while I sobbed with violence against my
identity as a misfit toy with no Santa Claus
or Rudolph swoopin’ in to take me home.
Spent, I lit a smoke
Dave said nothin’
Just handed me a beer
That was perfect
I didn’t need to be held
or told that everything would be fine,
or that I haven’t wasted my life
I don’t think I found a center
but I feel better
And though I don’t know yet
how to name my tune
or if it even matters
that I do
I have this night
to rant off key
amid misfit toys
at a makeshift home
called Tony’s.