I wish I could piss and moan
in my poems.
Your wish is my command,
commander.

Write on.
Search for my chorus in a song.
They are all instrumentals.
Maybe I can play the cello.

Some fat instrument that plays
when the funeral begins.
If I am the villain miscreant
piece of shit.
then lean on in.
Touch those fingerprints
on the key, unlock the gravity
inside of me.
There has got to be something left.
I don’t see it.
A million-dollar man, I wanted to be it.
Now everyone can be, but not me.

I live like its 1956.
My transmission is seized,
and I am stalling.
I am not hip hop,
there is no hip hop,
I am trolling.
I wanted to go
roller skating and bowling
and somehow ended up floating.

I need a scapegoat.
get out of my mind,
I put air quotes
around the word fine.

I’m fine.
Just last in line, and knew it.
Turn my boat around, you say.
Say, Hey, It’s going to be OK.

After 365 days of this life,
You might want to be Modest Mussorgsky
over Modest Mouse.
You might be staying
over “Night on Bald Mountain”
then floating on.

Marley, sing your own
redemption song.
I am Marley with the chains on.
Why do I feel like this?

Is their hope for this 41-year-old infant?

There is a cloud over my head.
It’s a helmet.
I think it’s my father’s lament.
Made me think fat was thin
and up was down.
And if the loser can win,
and Winna is a winner, can I win?

Not even a poem
I can be proud about.
Drink it down,
like depression on the tongue.
Feels warm like global warming
and a Lennon song.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now.