You might want to ask me why this is not a poem. The truth is, I haven’t been writing very good poetry these days. It seems to me I must be in pain to write good poetry / thank you Aidan / Jenna / etc. / and either way, whether I am in pain or not, the night in the sepulchre still lingers. The hours with the rotting bodies. The hours.

The night he had his best friend break up with me for him. I got in my car and drove and drove until I ran out of cigarettes. The man at the gas station. Never walk down a dark alley alone. Says Mommy.

Why isn’t this a poem? This isn’t a poem because it can’t be a poem. There are too many words; there isn’t the compressed space or time I need to make this a poem. Or a weapon.

The Tao says men cost more than the weapons they choose. The Tao does not say men are worth more than the weapons they choose. I used to wield a knife in my pocket, of course no good against a .9 mm held under my chin, against my temple, pressed right under my chin, poised to tunnel a fast path thru my brain. Have you ever closed your eyes and seen angels? I haven’t. White light? Not I. I saw, with closed eyes, a world like Hell, blackened trees, burnt, stumps smoking.

Riding in the ruins of the forest in Yosemite when I was twelve, I was hypnotized by the sight of the charred forest, the stench of smoke and scorched life. Fire is a weapon. Trekking my way up the small hills of Castro Valley, over the fried yellow grass, I thought, How could summer do this? Why does sunlight kill?

And I ask myself now, why do I cry? I am encompassed by a hole, a whole, a whole hole. Is it that I am afraid of what I am part of, something bigger that I cannot see? I use that forbidden word “something” and mean it. Something I cannot define, even though by standard rules, I should be defining this “something” if I choose to write about it.

It’s not politics, not exactly. Rape never is. Neither is the loss of friends or a loved one, because of it. It’s not about life or death, war, or friendship. It can’t be just about love, because that would be oversimplifying. If I could tie it all together, politics, life, death, war, friendship, love, maybe it would make sense. If I said, “rape is war,” or “love is politics;” if I started combining the terms, that would also be oversimplifying.

So I’ll do the ultimate simplifying. This is about “everything”, the other forbidden word. I can’t say “everything” in a poem. An essay. A pondering. Thank you rules / standards / ect. / and either way, whether I am in pain or not, the night in the sepulchre still lingers. The hours with the other women, fucked, broken. The hours. Why isn’t this a poem? It can’t be, it can’t be.

1.7.2005-2.26.2005