Blesok no. 28, September-October, 2002


David Holler


Sometimes I crave the abuse of a hard bristly toothbrush.
Sometimes, like Linda Gregg, I drink half a beer.
Sometimes I count the abandoned Christmas trees
     in early January (25 so far this year).
Sometimes I watch a dayglow frisbee twitch
     in the twang of the undertow.
Sometimes I call in sick, watch very bad TV
     and masturbate in strange parts of the house
when the roommates are gone.
Sometimes I think of all my exes, and wonder
     what kind of cars they drive,
     and guess at what their e-mail addresses might be.
Sometimes I find myself hiking with total strangers.
Sometimes I get up very early.
Sometimes I'm so cheap I walk over Castro St.
     with groceries.
Sometimes, if I've just been paid, I take a cab up the hill.
Sometimes I hum impossible melodies to myself.
Sometimes I eat the same thing five days in a row.
Sometimes I am a self-pitying wanker,
     still caught in victim mode all these years later.
Sometimes I am the most valuable friend
     you could ever imagine.
Sometimes I understand my brother's disappearance.
Sometimes large parties make me so nervous
I can't even go in.
Sometimes I copy and save all of someone's e-mails
into one file (as I just did with Sandra's -
how sweet our early correspondence).
Sometimes I try the radio.
Sometimes I just want to tell Michael Stipe to shut the hell up.

The Old House
(Part Two, December 2000)

I can type here in the kitchen:
the only neutral room,
though the house is empty.

Even now, as I sort through the things
of this house I grew up in,
knowing the house must be sold
due to extreme financial negligence,
I understand how it got so bad.

After my father's death of lung cancer,
we three children were left
to raise ourselves in some way.
My mother's grief was too great.

I forgive her everything.
Her house, a shrine of weakness,
is a beacon of neglect.
I forgive her absence during our childhood,
her drinking,
her abusiveness,
her volatility:
All of it stemmed in some way
from an irrecoverable grief.


A man shaves his beard for the first time in 25 years
so his mother can see his face before she dies

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