derelicts and madwomen
have a talent for tragedy
that belongs in a museum
inside an airtight glass case
protected by state-of-the-art technology
so they cannot pass it on
like some emotional e-bola
it makes them tremble
it makes them mystic
it makes them jump off the window ledges of musty flops
under cover of the night
dig?
I am not a derelict or a madwoman
and I haven’t their talent for tragedy
or their boiled-down-to-the-basics philosophy
that reduces living to a two-word outline: kill
:fuck
I am a son a brother a schoolboy
a student a scholar a worker a taxpayer
a husband a father a voter a reader
a writer a giver a taker a buyer
a seller a consumer a user a watcher a this a that a lot
but I am not a derelict or a madwoman
with a talent for tragedy
that belongs in a museum
or a funeral parlor
or a church bulletin
or the classified section of a great metropolitan newspaper
and I am not a derelict or a madwoman
with a capacity for catastrophe
or a flair for misfortune
or a facility for calamity
or a genius for disaster
or a gift for heartbreak
I do not tremble
I do not have mystic visions
I do not heave myself off the broken ledges of moldering hotels
into open dumpsters
or onto the cracked bricks of narrow alleyways
or the hoods of passing luxury SUVs
or simply into the cover of the night
no
I go to coffeehouses like this
to read drama queen soap opera to people like you
so we can all feel
as if we feel
something
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