So Much to Face

I've lost the ability to censor myself


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

So Much to Face
My first thought of the day
is Christ, I’ve gotta lot to face:
Like how can I possibly go to
that shitty convenience store job
with that stupid incompetent
Fundamentalist boss
runnin’ a business with a bible
and a calculator in his mind
that hasn’t worked in a decade
Mike, the cash is short again by $100,
what are we gonna do about this?
I say to myself, my entire life I’ve worked
for imbeciles who thought they were great men
I say to him, maybe you’re not taking
everything into account like cash back or--
I don’t make mistakes, he said, voice rising
what a fuckin’ child, I think,
don’t make mistakes?
your entire life is a mistake
you fuckin’ hypocrite,
you tell me to lie to people
to enrich your sad existence,
you smile the evil smile of the saved
because once upon a time
you said yes to a 3rd rate fairy tale
you’re morally against smokes and beer
you preach against it all the time
but you gladly take the money
you talk shit about your wife
whom you call stupid, whom you say
you feel sorry for, and your daughter
your own daughter who’s afraid of you,
and practically works for free,
who calls the store and says,
is he gone yet? don’t say anything
she can’t wait for you to die
what did you do to her, daddy?
you talk shit about my friend,
who put up with your shit for a year,
but you forget she’s my friend
because your brain ain’t worth
the single-ply toilet paper we sell.
89 cents a roll motherfucker!
your belief system
is a disease like all
belief systems are diseases.
But I lack the guts to quit,
that’s one of my diseases--
paralyzed by the dread
of yet another job search
there’s no place I wanna work--
I’m too tired, too tired,
so I pray to get fired
or contract a thousand cancers
in my testicles and drop dead
so I don’t have to work again.
Let this decision pass from my hands,
I can’t make it
sometimes poets can’t make it
most do like everyone else,
goin through the absurd motions
till they’re 80
some do for a while then say,
fuck it--
It’s too fucking exhausting
my little poems
and getting drunk with friends
keep me going
So fucking exhausting
I’ll try
I still enjoy people
when I’m happy
I was taught to keep going
for them
keep going no matter what
and that belief is deep,
goddamnit, my parents are still alive
I gotta keep going
and face my typical day,
my disease
During which I’ll face the toilet bowl 12 to 15 times
because my bladder’s been
getting worse since I staggered
into the lie of the drinking=confidence=creativity paradigm
I sit on said toilet 5 times to blooch and sploot out
the latest gas station burrito
while mumbling so much promise
so much promise
I’ll face my friends’ faces
and try to look ok:
I’m not ok
and by the way--
There ain’t no Moses now to lead an exodus
from this shithole!
the birds of midnight do not sing, they moan
I’ll face the morning cough
the latest hernia bulge
no health insurance
my fear of going to a doctor,
my fear of being cold and wet
my fridge full of beer,
a jar of mayonnaise and nothing else
I can’t even feed myself well
so fucking tired
dishes piled in the sink,
clothes thrown in heaps in unclean corners
sometimes in the morning they’re damp
did I piss on them again?
scraps of poems
and credit card slips strewn everywhere,
the shower I don’t have the strength
to turn on, the toothbrush, the dental floss,
memories of better days.
I used to groom myself
everyday
Because once again I didn’t die
in my sleep I have to face
the sad organ music of my life
like Bach when he realized
there is no God
and his wife is a whore
and his sons a waste of cum.
I open my notebook
and face the message I write every night:
hang in there little buddy,
nobody says no to life
are you fuckin’ crazy!
just get another job you fuckin’ baby!
you’ve made it this far
don’t read this in public
they’re gonna think, mike g’s a bummer
you can do it, it’ll pass
you’re a writer, you have friends
who really care,
the crosses you bear
make you beautiful, make
everyone beautiful,
write a happy poem for the dark lord
and your mother before the endtime,
take a shower, change your shirt,
try to add one more poet to your my space page,
go to the doctor,
maybe you have cancer,
have one year to live,
one year to follow the light out of the game
hurray!
till then
go to work--you can do it, it’ll pass,
it always has,
get the goddamn chapbook done
you’re on fire with meaning,
pretend, pretend,
call your mother,
try not to cry when she says,
you sound good, son
sounds like you’re havin’ fun,
get the goddamn chapbook done
chapbook, chapbook,
be a good actor,
smile, smile, drink, drink,
tell others they’re wonderful
they write good, they write good--
they do good things when they’re not suckin’
they do and they make you happy--
stop fantasizing about women havin’ sex with Mastiffs
or blowin’ the dicks of horses,
misogyny is no state to die in
consult your death, it’s coming,
what are you waiting for?
wring your wisdom of all its juice
tell people what you really think,
how great they look when they glow,
that they were the answer to emptiness,
every day
that they shared in bearing your shit-stained crosses,
every day
whether they liked your writing or not,
whether they liked you or not
reread Dennis McBride’s story of how
he felt when he quit his job,
what he did when he quit his job--
by Monday you’ll be manic again,
you’ll think again you’re a god among gods
you’ll sleep through most of Tuesday,
you’ll wake still buzzed and giddy,
think damn, I’ll never make it to the Blue Monk
in this incarnation--
damn, Wednesday morning‘s comin‘,
incarnation’s end if I’m lucky
I‘m ready--
I want to die in a moment of gratefulness
like this moment here,
with all of you,
now.
a crazy smile on my face as my face hits the floor,
my beer glass splintering into a thousand thankyous
then my darling dears, I’ll burst from this cage
of blood and bone, swim to heaven with ammunition
and rage ranging from the free to the iambic,
and if
there be
a god
it won’t
be god
for long