Sadness

And the strangest thing
Is that you let them.

Yes, you—you sitting there smiling
As they make their ridiculous demands
On your peace and quiet,
That band of political pirates.
And you walk away,
You walk away somehow proud—
Like a teenage girl who let him
Go too far.
They’re raping you,
Little girl.

Spiritually ravaging you.
How could you let them?
Because, you know, this is
Very avoidable: God only waits
For you to say the word…
Silence.
And I sit, dissolved into a corner,
Letting them laugh on in the thunder
Of their excrement,
Watching as they take everything from you.
Your ancestor’s heirlooms,
Your kid’s candy.
Sometime down the road they’ll
Beat you up and take your clothes.

How? Or why does it take place?
This conformation to foreign fashion,
This imitation of their inattentive conception,
Their desecrating cartoons of your
Holy confession?
(The neighbor’s muddy dogs running
Rampant across your poor mother’s kitchen floor.)
Why do you act like they want you to?
Why do the girls give up like that?

I’ve yelled these questions into
Mirrors and madhouses.
I always end up insane.

And the craziest thing
Is that you let them.

I Laugh Sometimes A Lot

On the porch, reading and whatnot. A glance at an impatient cell phone screen tells me its 1:15 a.m. This is my favorite part of the day, as scheduled. A dark bark from an unseen dog, the undulating roll of the crickets' exchange (somehow never monotonous or annoying), me snickering and hearing myself--a self-repeating cycle ensues. The night's appropriation is saved for those who can look back on a day of satisfying self-assertion. Me from the morning is a long way off, far enough now for me to wave at without this mocking expression being perceived by the distant figure. The orange haze from the streetlamp filtering through the leaves, the thick impersonal darkness closing my perception into a manageable space, contrasting my consciousness in a way the sunshine never could. This nocturnal weight presses the juices from these long-standing impressions, and I miss her, that quiet girl. Then I laugh. The coincidence of multiple instances of me drinking wine and loving life just a little more than usual is humorously and forebodingly scaring me. But it's funny.
I have a doctor's appointment at 10:15 in the morning. I need to leave time for an only slightly laborious waking-up and those purely necessary hygienic routines. This would be a suitable time for me to go to sleep--but I don't much like suits anyway.