August 4, 2001

• Today (this is really Friday the 3rd) I

  1. Saw my psych nurse; just a regular touch-base visit folks, I have been lower than normal since I got back from S.F. but I picked up a bit of flu there, so it's to be expected.
  2. Had enough energy after that to write some web updates. Haven't posted 'em yet, though.
  3. Went out with my sweetie to see Planet of the Apes. We both enjoyed it. I want to write a review but I haven't had time yet.
  4. Finally had enough energy to go to see some of the National Poetry Slams, the semi-finals between Dallas, San Francisco, Long Beach, and Winston-Salem. That's the order they finished in. Lots of dynamite poetry on all teams! Was inspired: poem follows.
  5. Was disturbed to find that someone clueless has been messing with the Real Change domain; the StreetWrites and StreetLife sites have disappeared. I have to get up way too early tomorrow, go into the office and fix that. So I'll have to say good night. After posting poem.

  Words

  Your pain is not important.
  

  You can't complain
  

  because Mother's hands traced hourglasses
  

  and she thrust her hips out
  

  and made smacking noises
  

  about your full breasted figure
  

  when you were thirteen

  and Daddy hid his magazines
  

  but told you the jokes anyway
  

  while his eyes traced your full breasted figure
  

  when you were thirteen

  and Mom dragged you out of bed
  

  and took you to a neighbor's house
  

  because Daddy was out drinking
  

  and she expected anything of him
  

  he was a bastard
  

  he might kill her
  

  he might rape you
  

  when you were thirteen.

  It was only words.
  

  
  

  You can't complain.
  

  Others were raped
  

  beaten
  

  bloody
  

  by fathers, mothers, strangers,
  

  cops.
  

  You were only assaulted
  

  with words.
  

  
  

  You've been called crazy,
  

  divorced, fired,
  

  your son won't talk to his crazy Mom,
  

  lots of friends won't talk to you again,
  

  but you can't complain.
  

  You haven't been
  

  locked up, tied down, burned through with electricity,
  

  shot up with so much thorazine
  

  you bled from every opening from your ears
  

  to your cunt.
  

  
  

  You've been lost and cold and hungry
  

  but never for long enough.
  

  You've never been trespassed out of the welfare office,
  

  arrested out of the hospital,
  

  shot for stealing a loaf of bread;
  

  you
  

  can't complain.
  

  
  

  You have to heal the world
  

  because everybody else's pain
  

  is more important than yours
  

  is more real than yours
  

  yours is only words.
  

  
  

  But
  

  dig underneath the words
  

  and you find
  

  a heart knotted like a trumpet.
  

  You can sound that heart
  

  in words
  

  and the other wounded hearts
  

  echo.
  

  
  

  These words are blood,
  

  chips of white bone.
  

  These words have stripped the flesh from your back,
  

  and they can rebuild it.
  

  
  

  It is never
  

  only words.
  

  
  

  • 3:38 am
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