The Pile That Falls To The Floor

Wow, it is 4 am already! I’ve been up late like this because of my bouts with asthma coming on from packing up here in the apartment. Just two weeks left before the move and here I am getting broken down from all the dust rising. When we escape into the fresh air, I find after an hour or so that I’ve gradually made a full recovery. At night when I throw myself down into bed, I start wheezing and coughing and my breathing becomes constricted.

Tonight I grabbed my headphones and threw on some podcasts while sitting up in the chair, one light on over in the corner like a little star. Why sit in the pitch blackness, especially when there’s all these boxes in the room that I could trip over? Kalika has plopped down on her side, her little head resting on the edge of the Wacom tablet. A woman is doing a sound-seeing tour of a Marilyn Monroe convention. Not incredibly exciting. It’s the kind of thing you listen to at 4 in the morning, or wind up fast forwarding through. Let’s see here… there’s supposed to be some Marilyn impersonators here tonight… Yawn.

Last night we went to a little dinner party at Hollins. I felt completely out of place, underdressed, awkward. Everyone raising their wine glasses… I kept thinking, this is so high society. I hope I’m not making them cringe. I’m not against wine, really. It’s just not my thing. I haven’t developed a taste for it. They must’ve thought I was a total creep when someone made another toast and my glass was completely empty. Cling! Oh what the hell. It wasn’t long before everyone was drunk, full of laughter, and shamelessly mesmerized by the philosophy professor’s shaky home video of us all standing around from the hour before.

. . .

belt out
notes at a table
and when I go
to the venue
shout out these
as poetry
lyricism
and someone
says
I like your energy
or delivery
and I know
what they mean
because it
surprises me
some kids
deliver like
they’re about
to fall asleep
and here I get
up and picture
lightning in my head
and try to
strike as
bolts
that will split
stone benches
on a hill in Towaco

my friend drives up
we pack my stuff
in his car
and we’re out
never to return again

I left the movement
in jagged steps
no one could
ever say
after 10+ years
I didn’t
give it the
ol’ college try

I will not be
putting
“bhakti yoga”
on my resume
a deception

the movement and
its mafia
please O please
don’t send
one of your
cro-mags
after me

if I get in
the center
of this
bible belt
I shall
be protected

spirit filled
motherfucker!

I was young and susceptible
and coerced into
a brainwashed pyramid scam
they needed workers
tele-marketers
book distributers
pot washers

at the end of the day
as in 4 am
they would
announce the scores
you are the best
book distributor they
would say to me
I mean, to the
guy next to me
and everyone
would throw garlands
around him
a “front-line” man

“it’s okay,”
they would say
“everyone has a place
in this movement…
here’s a garland
for you, too…”

know your place

and
“what is one life given in service?”
no BFD, right?

a whole lot of wreckage

no longer do I fear
being wrong

no more shelter tours
to go on

if you stage dive now
will your bones
break up
over the crowd

will you feel ashamed?

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