--I'M SORRY I'M NOT CUTER


...It was hard to focus today, to be productive.
The guys who clean the gutters out with their machine-gun air blowers were here. Then they brought out their silver ladders to clang and clean the windows. Wherever I went, whichever room, there they were. At one point I found myself readings ZYZZYVA in the bathroom sitting on the ledge of the Jacuzzi tub where I paused from reading to write five poems.
Those guys are gone now. I have my computer back. You'd think I'd be really productive, that I'd get to that novel, write some more poetry, come up with a story or two, but know, for some strange reason I wrote this (it's not really about you, so don't worry. At least I don't think it's about you.)


Me and Everyone Else You Know
I wrote you a note. I was honest, yet kind. Sort of. I was sort of kind. It was hard to be nice, though. It was. Truthfully, there weren’t a lot of lovely words when it came to you and what you did and how you were and the way you weren’t though you said you’d be that way.
What happened?
I mean, did you mean to be so mean? Who knew you had that cruel streak. Maybe that’s why you wear your hair in such a peculiar fashion, so as to camouflage the truth, kind of like in that movie, “The Omen,” and the scene where Gregory Peck rifles through his son’s hair while the boy is sleeping, and the images start to stutter and flutter in slow motion, on purpose, to give it an eerie effect (which it does) and Gregory Peck the dad of this boy who is the anti-Christ clips and clips close to the scalp of his slumbering son until Gregory gets to scalp and a scar or brand that resembles ringworm, only it’s not ringworm, not at all, it’s way worse than that, it’s the numbers 666.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you’re Satan.
But maybe he’s a friend of yours. Perhaps you’re in his legion or you chat him up on Facebook.
Is that harsh? Did you flinch? Hey, I’m sorry, but we’re being truthful here. No more games or gamesmanship. No more Ships Ahoy.
If I knew how this was going to play itself out, I would have called a spade a spade when I had the chance. It wouldn’t have mattered that you had larger muscles than me or bigger pores, I’d have done things differently. Even though your shirts were softer because they came from Sudan, even though you wore loafers made from alligator hide, I still would have taught you a trick or two. That’s right, Buster. I’d have laid down the law. I mean it, Sparky. Why’re you smiling? You think this is funny? A joke? My idea of a good time? I’ve got a lot better things I could be doing.
Actually, this is rather cathartic for me.
And I can’t take credit. My therapist told me to tell you off. She said, “Write that guy a nasty note and put some elbow grease on your sentences. Rip him to shreds!” Those were her exact words, my therapist’s words: “put some elbow grease on your sentences.”
Okay, so now I’m exhausted. Totally. You’ve tuckered me out. My limbs are sore. My fingers hurt. I’ve got serious eye strain. As Ryan Adams said, “I used to be sad, now I’m just bored with you.” That about sums it up.
Oh, but one last thing. Remember that bridge, the one you told me about that’s not far from your house? I was thinking; maybe tomorrow, on your way back from the gym, you could stop there, get out of your Benz and take a flying leap. Yeah, that’d be perfect. You’d make someone very happy, someone like me and everyone else you know.