—MONDAY YOU CAN FALL APART, TUESDAY I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU

 

 

BEAUTIFUL WORLD, WHERE ARE YOU / SALLY ROONEY

 

 

Sometime when I get really sad and depressed, I lie in bed and think about you. I don’t mean in a sexual way. I just think about the goodness of you as a person. And since you like me, or you love me, I must be okay.

 

He might be losing his will to live a bit. But low self-esteem, I don’t think so.

 

They were together again, it did not matter much now, what they said or did.

 

That’s something he said. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted.

 

In a funny way maybe it’s not important to get along, and more important just to love each other.

 

When I wrote books, in a way it was like a love affair, or an infatuation, except that it only involved myself and it was all within my own control. It was like God had put his hand on my head and filled me with the most intense desire I had ever felt, not desire for another person, but desire to bring something into being that had never existed before.

 

When it comes to putting something at the center of your life, God strikes me as a good option—better at least than making up stories about people who don’t exist, or falling in love with people who hate me. It’s still better to love someone than no one.

 

Anyone can hurt anyone if they go out of their way.

 

And what do we have now instead? Nothing. And we hate people for making mistakes so much more than we love them for doing good that the easiest way to live is to do nothing, say nothing, love no one.

 

I suppose I was seeing, but not looking.

 

Do you feel, when someone does something nice for you, it’s like you’re so grateful that you actually start feeling bad?

 

I have never been very good at it, he remarked. Being looked after.

 

He saw her on O’Connel Street a few weeks later, all the way across the road, heading toward the river, and it was like watching his life walk away from him.

 

I had to empty my life out first, and begin from there.

 

Whenever something good happens to me I always find myself thinking: I wonder how long it will be until this turns out badly.

 

Here I am writing another email about sex and friendship. What else is there to live for?

 

Wherever I go, you are with me, and as long as we both live the world will be beautiful to me.

 

What do you want from me? Please, God, show me what you want.

—AND THIS IS WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID

 

 

Red Period

 

 

The sky has a sour belly she needs to expunge, needle marks running down her scrawny arms, a scowl in her breath

The moon’s been dead for months now, throat slit by a Messiah, her kindling-sized bones stashed under some landlord’s gummy mouth guard 

There are options, but still, I could swallow all the sand or piss in Marina Del Ray, and nothing would change

Children would still go missing, get bitten and beaten

Because cruelty begins at the roots, hidden like incestuous sheets, stained with hieroglyphic hysterics and pleas for help 

Everyone knows that veracity is as two-faced as the moon before its been murdered, as slippery as a carpet made from steaming intestines

Me, I’ve been trying on new stripes for my skin, watching the scarlet pucker and bubble up over each jagged slit

I call it my Red Period and simply sigh humbly at the cracked stratosphere

You hurt yourself if the bridges don’t collapse, and the rigs on the freeway veer, last second, lickety-split, and won’t mow you into a splat, or like if you leap off the Chrysler and some cocky, Dudley Do-Right fireman catches you when what you want is to wear an asphalt mask, so many fragments bit into your body that the mortician throws up his gloves

It’s a record player with a horsehair needle, like the one my brother lifted the week grandmother’s car got crushed by a yawning locomotive 

It’s also true that I’ve never seen a twilight so untrustworthy, counting her pilfered loot, her PDA on grand display, fangs fronted, lust like a burden that can’t be curbed, a deluge about to fall and drown us all, her laughing deliriously as we puke up cats and dogs, the very things that were meant to save us, or bring us joy, but never did

 

—SHE BLEW MY MIND, AND THEN SHE BLEW MY NOSE 

 

 

Alice Blue

 

 

Last night someone shot the moon right between the eyes without asking for my permission

Now she’s earth-struck, flat as a tortilla, ochre and mournful in Chugwater, Wyoming, though also dead as the stump that’s been stuck in your eye since the last storm hit

Was it you?

In bed you smelled like gunpowder and lunar landings, your cheeks shadowed or cratered, Alice Blue on one side, ghost-white one the other 

Snoring with a robust hilt, your hand defied gravity, floating up to the ceiling while repeatedly pinching its trigger finger like a gunslinger, desperate as fuck, without ammo

You only know so much about someone, my Gran said after Grandad was hauled off for snapping Polaroids under the girl’s restroom stall

You only know one side of the China Moon that’s kept privy on lay-a-way

I’d like to believe she’s still up there, Luna, with her Super Glue smile, holding the universe together, whether flummoxed or just bored and eating Ritz Crackers topped with Cheese Whiz

I’d like to think jealousy is just any other curse word, like shit, asshole, motherfucker or matrimony

 —DON’T LOOK BACK IN ANGER, I HEARD YOU SAY

 

strays

 

your ghost 

was always 

strangling the weather 

and going down on

every stray bush 

so mine was a 

youth that ran amuck 

locked in a coat closet 

pinging off hangers 

and zippers 

each jacket sleeve an 

untrustworthy noose 

if I said I loved you 

the shelves wouldn’t 

stop shrieking hysterics 

if I said I hated you 

the walls would use 

my bones for kindling 

however there’s a

speck of promise 

in almost every 

predicament which 

is why serial killers 

continue their slaughter 

so tell me mother 

why are you still here 

and breathing 

when we all saw you 

lowered into that hole  

we each helped 

fill with dirt

 

—SOME DAYS HIGH SCHOOL NEVER ENDS

 

throw things

 

 

throw things, hit people, say what you want, scream, curse, talk shit about your friends, it’ll all end up on someone’s blog, while someone else’s blog will go, You motherfucker, you’re doing it all wrong, and you’ll try again, because getting pissed on for months is nasty business, because synthesizing motives takes a Sherlock, or the naked desire to flex, be curious, and in the end, you’ll go running on the ball, for years you will, because there’s a forgiveness gene flipping like a salmon on the dock inside of you, because faith gets ransomed somewhere, every day in the world, but you’re the only dumbass who doesn’t know it.

 

—IT BROKE ME LIKE A PROMISE

 

 

Soluble

 

We have wine 

for years 

but what we lack are 

meaningful conversations 

and bowel movements 

which is okay because 

Costco’s out of everything

even employees

which is why the bear 

and deer stand pat

at checkout 

swiping Tinder dates

on their phone 

It would all be amusing if 

we weren’t hemophiliacs

if you had an alibi 

or a love child 

speaking of which 

would you love me 

more if Diane Seuss 

blurbed my bank statement 

if Hemingway was the 

heir I never had but 

stayed part of my lineage

What I’ve learned is

it’s hard to speak 

without using your 

tongue properly

same as it’s hard to compete 

when love becomes 

biodegradable and 

soluble from every angle  

—AT TIMES LIKE THESE, YOU LEARN TO LIVE AGAIN

bros 

 

we were guided  

by havoc  

like an unavoidable  

weather event  

you said It’s only fair  

to use real bullets  

or razor blades

but back then the water  

tasted like talc  

the wine like superglue  

even the pious 

clouds were untenable  

because one of us was  

always lying  

while the other  

practiced cannibalism  

fiery or not we could  

never keep the truce  

in winter the skies  

bent over backwards  

dropping gallstones 

while you slit both veins  

before I could even speculate  

or sign for the package  

burning by your door

 

 —YOU MIGHT END UP WINNING AND NOT KNOW WHY

 

 

bros 

 

we were guided  

by havoc  

like an unavoidable  

weather event  

you said It’s only fair  

to use real bullets  

or razor blades

but back then the water  

tasted like talc  

the wine like superglue  

even the pious 

clouds were untenable  

because one of us was  

always lying  

while the other  

practiced cannibalism  

fiery or not we could  

never keep the truce  

in winter the skies  

bent over backwards  

dropping gallstones 

while you slit both veins  

before I could speculate  

or sign for the package  

burning by your closed door

 —I LEFT SCHOOL WITHOUT EVER SOLVING FOR X

 

  

Why?

  

 

Bury me 

in gold 

or brimstone 

what’s it matter 

if the floor is 

a trapdoor and 

you stand there 

with a bloody shiv 

behind your back 

while I fall 

through space 

screaming the 

one question

you might answer 

but never honestly 

 —TRUTH IS A VERY LOADED WORD

 

 

In Case You’re Wondering

  

I’m busy scrubbing 

clouds right now

way the fuck up here 

and I still can’t find a 

vocabulary or proper 

verdict for what you did, 

or who you really are 

Can you?

 

In case you’re wondering 

I’m in 7A 

skull-fucked to a 

Boeing window 

sucking on a sour vein

that tastes too familiar 

hoping to bleed out 

without gushing on my 

seatmate’s cashmere vest

 

But, hey, what’s a “vein” again?

What’s “assassination” or 

“authentic” again?

Sorry, I forget, 

and you seem to be 

the only one with 

all the answers

If you could inform me

one last time 

that would be the kindest 

act you’ve ever performed

 

And, anyway, just 

trust (ha) that I’ll be 

sure to let everyone know 

how magnanimous 

you were in the end, 

life-saver and hero 

of the story, 

same as every fiction 

ever written 

especially the clever ones 

you craft in the raped shade 

while smirking sagely

sucking down all my marrow 

sluice by bloody sluice

—I’VE NEVER HELD MY BREATH FOR QUITE THIS LONG, SO PLEASE FORGIVE ME, IF I SCREW IT UP

 

 

Don’t Bother Knocking

 

The sun’s 

bloody-black 

eye 

can’t lift 

its lid 

though its 

inconsolable 

rays stutter

over the backyard 

like a eulogy 

given in Morse code

right around 

where the pear 

tree drops 

her over-ripe 

fruit on 

the lawn

like heads 

just clipped 

from the 

guillotine

There’s enough 

for anyone—

deer, homeless 

or ghosts—

to sample 

and digest 

if they’re 

able to avoid 

the worms

though I can’t

which is why 

I plop down 

now on 

the also dead 

grass and 

grab the 

closest pale golden 

gnaw into 

the pulp 

with oblivious 

gluttony 

stunned worm-head 

on my tongue

waiting to 

be swallowed

as I stare 

at the grave 

just two feet 

away that 

mound of dirt 

which means 

everything

that forgotten 

soil quivering 

but mostly

just wanting 

to be held and 

told I love you

one last time

 

—ON THE FIRST DAY YOU SANG ME A HEART OF GOLD

 

 

…Happy Hump Day.  (I sort of hate that expression, and vow never to use it again.

 

…Through this Friday, Lulu is offering a 20% discount with the use of the code: EARLYBIRD

Here’s the link for my new book, if you’re interested:

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/len-kuntz/this-is-me-being-brave/paperback/product-4ep8g7.html?page=1&pageSize=4

   

…Here were some recently published pieces that received some really nice feedback.

 

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2021/10/13/nothing-is-everything/

 

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2021/10/14/no-angels/

 

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2021/10/14/some-kind-of-blue/

 

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2021/10/13/what-am-i/

 

 

I just read this out loud to myself and cried. This is a beautiful, loving, heart breaking poem by Len Kuntz up at Eunoia Review

 

Oh! Len, you do know how to reach the heart with your words, seemingly spare but oh-so-powerful.

 

Wow! So powerful.

 

Oh man Len. Few words needed. You have such an incredible talent!

 

I had the pleasure and honor of meeting the writer, Len Kuntz. Here is one of his pieces that moves me big time.

 

One of my favorites. Captures all the very real emotion.

 

Powerful and devastating and so beautifully written

 

So good.

 

Exquisitely expressed. So very, very sad.

 

Love this one, Len.

 

Oh Len. My heart is broken. It is often so difficult to know what to say, but your poem is so eloquent.

 

Sad and real, Len. Well well done.

 

This may be by far the most beautiful precious thing you've ever written and you can feel the emotion! You can't help but cry!

 

very moving

 

Beautiful, and what a perfect ending.

 

This is gut-wrenching, Len. And so powerfully written.

 

Ecstasy in the agony of that moment; putting into motion those breath-stopping times when you're at a loss for words. What writing; wow.

 

This is gut-wrenching, Len. And so powerfully written.

 

Mmmm. I cod hear the percussion and echo in this, like a slam poem that knows how to rumble against the rain.

 

Yes, powerful and so sad