This poem from 1996 takes a look at my lack of self and feeling like an outsider in the world.
How many times must I write the word “I”
Before I understand what the hell I am?
How many days will pass in desolate pondering
Before I take the clock and smash it on the edge
of my life?
“IT WILL BE A BRIGHT SUNNY DAY. HIT THE BEACH. YET ANOTHER PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA DAY.”
I like the rain, the fog, the mist, the cold.
I like the ominous closing in, when I can only see one or two;
The isolated blatancy , the urgency of closure
Comes so clear to me in the white face of fear.
“BAD NEWS FOLKS, RAIN IS IN THE FORECAST THROUGH THE WEEK. STAY INDOORS. IT SURE IS NASTY OUT THERE.”
The sun is fake, breeding artificial tans, implants, and lyposuction;
The false preparation of winter is sprawled on the sand;
Such a waste of bleach—whiteness—fear of themselves.
I love myself. I thrive on my morose verse. I only wish I knew.
“JANE DOE, A FRESHMAN AT USC, JUMPED FROM A FREEWAY OVERPASS AT NOON TODAY. . . AND NOW THE WEATHER.”