Shag Rugs

Suddenly, I go dumb

In the middle-space unknown.

Circling unto and into

Itself unshown.

I can’t cry.

I rage, visage, umbrage,

Nick Cage, in cage.

Teeth bared. Incisors dripping blood.

A lion’s parade comes as if it will never end,

Presenting with an easy grace

The ease with which I can become a psychopath.

Shut it down.

I have to confront

The too-long dearth of heartsong

In the morning belly dirge.

Buried cage.

Buried rage, rage, rage into the dying of the night.

Pain blossoms like a flower, you know that?

This morning, it spreads thick into my belly.

Past the bitterness of the coffee dripping into my lymph.

Spreading to the toilet where I want to vomit and can’t.

Too cowardly to stick two fingers down my throat.

To vomit on the sun-washed sidewalk in front of Blue Bottle.

You know. The one on Hillhurst just north of Yuca’s

The burrito stand that got the James Beard award.

Amazing burrito’s there. They make them with lard.

You ought to check it out.

Sounds very Hollywood, doesn’t it?

Sick with rage and not going into the darkness of the night.

A weakness to men.

A scourge to women.

I hid from this shag rug color of childhood.

Colors the hues of vomit.

Burnt oranges. Amber yellows. Ochre reds.

I hid from its Tinkers to Evers to Chance.

More comfortable with the supporting role.

Anything more, I would vomit the shag rugs.

I’d rather wear the crown of limited necessity.

To be a Sonny LaTierri to Danny Zuko.

A Benny Southstreet to Nathan Detroit.

Oh, fuck,

My heart hurts.

Rouge muscle and pounded bone.

I’m not surprised

That there’s no soft heart diagnosis

Outside of anxiety.

Diagnosis is a crutch.

Something to lean on for awhile.

To remain relevant in a world

That wants to destroy our tears.

You want to see how expendable a man can be?

Watch a woman’s reaction,

When a significant other cries.

That’s the acid test.

Not the funeral, marriage, or retirement tears.

Not even the movie tears in the darkness.

You know the ones I’m talking about.

The sanctioned, cropped, and photoshopped tears.

Watch a woman’s reaction to a man’s tears,

When he realizes he’s in over his head.

That he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

That nobody knows what they’re doing.

I cried next to her in bed that night.

She asked me, “Are you crying for you or are you crying for me?”

She knew she was dying. It was so unfair. I didn’t know.

I wish that I had the presence of mind then.

To just say,

“Yes”

Yeah, I want to vomit on Birkenstock’s.

To vomit on the fascist color choices of clothing and cars.

Cool, efficient, sleek, insular, colorless.

An implicit righteousness in rightness.

And the being right rather than the being bright.

Yeah, I want to vomit.

I want to vomit the shag rugs.

I want to vomit the 10,000 year old tears of men unkempt and unwept.

I want to vomit the dark haunting thoughts of how expendable we are.

Of how expendable I am.