September 19, 2006

The woman who taught me how to write

said writing was wicked unless
you are teaching children about God
and then all you need is a bible which
has already been written
(and edited by men I might add)

The man who taught me all I know of music

said some music was evil.
It made you want to take all your clothes off
unless it was Beethoven.
Even Liszt was questionable.
But we made beautiful music nonetheless,
A German Requiem Opus 45,
and it made me want to scream.
I didn't. Ever. I never screamed.
But I did take all my clothes off
to the chorus of crickets and circadas and frogs,
and laid there wondering how to fall into the sky.

The one who really taught me about love

gently guided my mouth towards his penis.
I cried. He said it was okay.
He meant it. It was okay.
He taught me that its okay to be a child
at age 20 when I wanted nothing more
than to play house.
I didn't understand though.
I thought being a child with a child was irresponsible,
so I chased him away
and remembered how to live on fear
and lie in bed with a stomach ache
because eternity was too baffling a concept.

(and then wonder why the sound equivalent

of a metal rod through the center of my head
screams the scream I never screamed)

The woman who taught me nothing

is dead. She won't talk to me
and this makes me angry. She said
I was everything a baby ought to be
and then died
and won't listen anymore.

Never mind then. I'll teach myself.

Its easy.
Murmur nonsense, utter profanities you don't really mean
and ask for whipped cream with a bit of coffee on top
then pay in pennies,
never screaming the screams
of the living.