with a nod to “Prison Playbook”
for maggie: I am writing through other people’s conversation, stronger, louder, meaner people
“You’re not alone, I suffer too
I’ve felt every trial that you’ve gone through from the start
That’s what people do
When love comes to the rescue…”
— “When Love Comes to the Rescue,” Oleta Adams
there’s a scene that opened up conversation in my head, a line here, a line there, the thread of casual, passing humanity — as the passing of a tropical storm, sending multi-million dollar tourists fleeing to their multi-million dollar mansions —
and here I go again,
trying to touch my ancestral wheres and wherefors
the savage poetry in the breakdown to shakespeare and virginia woolf’s “the waves”
…
he owes a lifetime debt
so he takes the blows again and again
knowing it will never be enough,
it can never be enough
compared to facing death itself, pissing his pants and pleading with god,
knowing the latest prodigal son,
one in a long line of hugs and promises —
the bass line in this hazard tale —
will, must take that one-way ticket out to the train station, for another loaf of bread, to his dying day, immersed in oblivion,
forgetting the errand, and the purpose,
enjoying the kind of freedom the worthless among us do
they promise, most anyway, to call, to visit, to tit for tat,
until “to think fondly” is all they have left — as if they performed some great feat, as a fleeting thought brought on by a sudden wrong turn to root and safety, the habits we fill ourselves up with in our warren dens, in place of
ah, sweet love that bids us a fond farewell, dinner out, hand in hand, out of pocket, the long drive home,
humming empty achievement
he won’t come back, the aging gangster says a bit sadly,
but it’s just as well (I wouldn’t either)
the context of where I came from, how far I’ve gotten, what it took for me to do more than run
to simply stand where I am and say, “what do you need?”
we are all soundtracks of this prison playbook