Angry, Angry Discarded Poem Drafts

The Worm

The worm is choking on the effluvium
of memory. I’m surrounded by bad actors

who keep trying to deliver the same lines.
Something that’s been lost can never be

found again. Nothing can ever be lost.
I am not the enemy. I am the only enemy.

The rain keeps our heads down, but we keep
walking. Crows draw their sleek cloaks

about them and laugh at the rain. A poor plan
is no substitute for a good impromptu.

But the worm can never eat all of the apple.
The crows remember when their ancestors

were fed us. All actors are bad when they
pretend. The sun will shine, as sure as skin

cancer. Remember: value what you can. Tomorrow,
there won’t be sun or rain, there will be wind.

* * *

The World Is Ugly Because We Are Ugly

Did you consider that the carpet you picked
for your office because it was the cheapest will

be the last thing someone sees? You’ve littered
the roadside with concrete in the shapes of worn

teeth; why not make the slightest effort towards
aesthetic appeal? Laziness is not a virtue. Painters

and poets work cheap. Gold is not the only adornment.

* * *

Which is the better lie: that malice
drives the actions of the rope-holders?
Or that their stupidity blinks when faced
with mirror glare?

* * *

The New Car Smell of the Soul

Something is wrong with my soul. I don’t value
the name stitched into the label of my shirt as much

as who did the stitching, and I find it curious which
is praised more. Of more value is the blood dried

in the thread than the pedigree of who designed
the cut. I’ve heard such terrible things about people

like me. I’m ashamed to ever raise my poorly accoutered
head. Similarly, when it comes to things, I value

that which lasts rather than the new, the replaceable.
(Aren’t we all considered replaceable enough already?)

I don’t want to buy a new car in five years, and I think
those who do are fools. It’s a sickness I must have. A lack

of personal responsibility. The ugly truth of commerce
is one whose head many simply cover with a bag

because they married it in a fit of youth and ignorance,
which is not the same as love, no matter what any

book says. But I’m just old fashioned. I like to taste
the lips I’m kissing or which are kissing me, no matter

how hairy and tainted, no matter the smell of meat on
its breath. And if I don’t love it, I will step aside from it.

* * *


Neon Flashing Light

The neon flashing light gets angry when people stare. They're just phobes, it says. They're rude. Sometimes it emits a piercing siren, and when all the heads in the grocery store turn, the neon flashing light meets each of their eyes, defiant. They want to seal me in a box with syrofoam popcorn, it says. They want to homogenize me like milk. And when no one responds, it repeats it louder.

The Neon Flashing Light alternates its strobe pattern at the bank; it changes colors in yoga class so that no one even sees the teacher. In movies, it howls until everyone walks out. They don't get it, it says. I'm challenging their world view. It looks around. Everyone is gone. There's no one to hear. I was right, it says, I was right.

* * *