UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 02/2004
22 Valium and a box of wine.
I was coming off of the stuff,
A box of wine a day and as many Benzo’s as I could get.
real tuff time.
and boredom, boredom, fucking boredom.
I spent 30 days arguing with them and they spent 30 days arguing with me.
“Do you know that your liver is enlarged from alcohol?”
“Yes, do you know that I burned a cross in my backyard last week for no reason while all of my roommates were sleeping?”
We were at a stalemate.
Eventually, they won.
“Do you know that if you have one more drink you are going to die?”
“Yes, that is why I will work the twelve steps, I will give into my higher power, and I will never shit in my pants at a Karachi bar again.”
So they send me off all polished, and I bet they were so proud.
and I had a nice welcome home....
I discovered about $1,000 of CD’s had been stolen
I didn’t even know who to call, it seemed the whole world had started shooting smack a week before I went into rehab.
I’m not psychic, but I saw the devil on it’s way to knock on my door, and that’s why I got out when I did.
Some fuckhead is out there listening to the CD collection it took me years to collect, and drinking a bottle of wine.
They were good for that.
So, Welcome to Sobriety.
I did it.
Can I go now?
I want it both ways
I thought I had accepted my burden to bear years ago.
Ups and downs
Rights and wrongs
For better or for worse.
But I hurt an innocent person today.
Let me rephrase that, as clearly, not one of us is innocent.
Someone hurt me
I’ve always had the fire in me
So I struck back.
But my fury struck someone else who was standing in the way.
I was vindictive
I was spiteful
I was calculated
I was mean.
And I thought I would feel good
Or at least better.
Sweet sweet revenge.
But the earth must be chasing its own tail tonight
So caught up in the game
Its throwing us all off like a mechanical bull.
I’ve spent the last hour in the bathroom throwing up.
This is me we are talking about here.
I offend people on a regular basis.
I can put people in their fucking place
Faster than a librarian can alphabetize
A stack of book about lies.
I think The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is funny
And When Harry met Sally is terrifying.
I get in bar fights with guys named “Bubba”
And hitchhike in the rain.
But there I was
On my hands and knees
Staring at my own sickness
With tears in my eyes.
If my insanity is double-sided
Then I’m more fucked up than I realized.
And its when you don’t see your insanity,
When it slips out of your path of vision…
That monsters are created
Legends are made
Killers are born.
As an atheist I feel free most of the time
No dude in a white suit to judge me at every turn
And watch over my shoulder.
I mean, I made a conscious effort to walk this way
(You ain’t born with a walk like this, baby)
But those fucking sheep
When they fuck up
They can confess to god and be forgiven
Lay their stupid heads down and sleep like babies
I’ve got no one to confess to
No one to forgive me
(Nor, do I believe I should be forgiven).
Of course it makes sense-
That being bad would feel bad
But I have never even had enough goddamn sense
to buy a vowel for a four letter word I will no doubt need, around the corner.
I call them stupid?
I look out my window at the sleeping peaceful mass of ‘em
And now I remember
Why I used to never face a day sober
It’s been awhile
So tonight I say the first prayer I’ve said in years
Thank Heaven for 7-11
I’ll drink to that
And the earth spins on and on
I had the best Aim in Kindergarten
In my invisible straight-jacket I saw it all.
My mother’s frail body laying on the floor…
and my dad’s fists covered in more blood and hair each time they raised up
I was 5
I was paralyzed.
I knew my mother was still conscious,
but she had stopped crying and screaming.
Truth is, she stopped crying and screaming years before.
And I was only 5, but as I watched this
I remember so vividly wanting to kill my father.
I had my first homicidal urge at age 5.
That particular day is long long gone.
Everyone’s all healed up nicely on the outside.
Back in those days of my early childhood I had a gun held to my head
by my father so many times that I stopped counting.
“You do so and so or your baby dies.”
Every time it happened I thought…this is going to be the day when
she’s just gonna say…”Go ahead and do it.”
Just the huge presence of my dad, squashing the spirit of my mother and I
into the size of the bullets in the gun.
Again, those days are long gone now.
And I know a lot of things I could not have known then.
My father raped my mother so many times, that she convinced
herself it was no longer rape.
I don’t even have to spend two seconds thinking about it,
I know I’m a product of rape.
I was created by evil, given a gun, and handed the torch.
So, you don’t think I’m capable?
Debbie Kirk is the author of two chapbooks “Lost Words of Suicide Lovers “(Pink Anarchkitty Press), and “Valley of the Gallows” (Black Hoody Nation). She has been published in a number of online publications including the following: Babel Magazine, Mystery Island Publications, Impetus, Cherry Bleeds, Mystery Island Remark…a ‘zine of damn fine poetry, Lummox Journal, Foole’s Gold, The People’s Poet, Sex and Guts etc. She has also been published in a number of print ‘zines, to name a few: Failed Seeker, Fearless, Open Minds Quarterly, Transcendent Visions, and Austin Celebrity Profiles. She is the creator and editor for Pink Anarchkitty Press.
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