A newspaper to fill, never enough.
“Her death by gun? A hoax; so kill that story
and write another one.” Since Shit for Brains
is on the rag again, and Ted, “the man,”
a legend in his mind, too slow, today–
a day much like the last–I write it myself.
I pour the juice as tea, serving myself
last, the tiny cups holding just enough.
The three small chairs seat Bear and Doll (today
my guests) and me–a little girl. The story
is that I should play alone. Upstairs, the man
my mommy calls her “friend” beats in her brains.
Despite our claims to fuck them out, our brains
remain, his closes in sleep. I ask myself,
“Why do we think, almost to a man,
our weak cries defeat the silence enough
to make a difference?” The story
never changes as quiet becomes today.
At the park, Hugh shows me how to toke. Today
the sun is searing. When the smoke hits my brain’s
center, I feel just like the Alice story,
a small and tiny teen inside myself.
“Hello, out there!” I can’t scream loud enough.
“Murder!!” Hugh panics. “Please don’t leave me, man!”
My pride and joy, my light, my would-be man,
first born, I pledge my life to you today
until such time that I have done enough
to teach you love is in the heart, your brain’s
above the waist. From you, nothing for myself
is asked and when I die, forget my story.
Your eyes across the table tell the story
at a point beyond my gaze: The man
I knew does not see me as I myself
am not the same. Killed time with me today;
thank you. What thoughts reside within your brain?
When did we decide that we were not enough?
I find myself living on the highest story
of a tower, looking down on man. Enough
today. My brain is tired. Deadline. Print it.
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2010.