Two Poems by Jennifer Omega
it’s called crazy horse, this leather, and i show you my clogs. they are
brand new, but appear old and worn in; the more you beat them up, the
better they look. more things should be made of crazy horse.
i tell you this and you tell me to stop going through life with my head
down and maybe my neck and shoulders wouldn’t hurt all the time. i don’t
complain anymore. you could not care less about shoes.
the bacon is crackling and a grease missive catapults into my eye, searing
tears. i don’t think i am what you are looking for. the griddle is hot,
volatile and kinetic. you are substance fueled adventure. you are an
addict and you are a drug. i am only a catalyst, a spatula. you are the
addict, drug and high, heat and pop.
you love yourself but sometimes you forget. i reminded you. we should eat
breakfast, it is here and real, it is a thing to do. you are the star of
my evaporating fantasy construct.
you are alone in your flat with no curtains where you barely sleep. with
your computer, with your tv, with your work, with your thoughts, you are
lonely. you are alone. you love yourself more than anyone could, but you
you don’t want to be.
you miss drugs a lot. you miss drink maybe more and say nyquil doesn’t
count. you have to think about you now, about self preservation, which is
logical and the opposite of passion and abandon. you can’t do that anymore
because you are dying.
i am surrounded by people. i am miserable; it is obvious. nothing is
wrong. nothing, nothing. i watch a movie in the dark early morning alone.
it is amazing, the movie and being alone, the dark, the screen. it is
absolutely beautiful. i like living here.
you wake to the sun. you are a vampire and it burns. you are the best and
everyone knows, everyone loves, always. a kite string of hearts follows
you patiently waiting, bruised but not hurt, not really.
the solar system is in jeopardy
we shook her ashes toward the ocean while a magic carpet wind slid
underneath and dashed them into the rocks, the actual weight of the matter
inversely proportional to the weight of the matter. i hoped the formality
and execution were significant and trusted that some would eventually sift
down into the sea. my little brother, embarrassed by the gaze of
bystanders, slumped a few feet away; my baby sister, small, quiet,
burrowed her face into my armpit while i stroked her hair. my stepfather
tossed a rose onto the shallow lapping ripples beneath us. we were left to
our sadness, mostly, four lost planets in orbit around nothing.
my stepfather had brought his new girlfriend along and left her at her
family’s shore house. it was crass and cruel and indicative of his
complete lack of nuance and feeling. i told him so, assured it made him
feel worse. we needed a parent to help us grieve; he needed a woman (after
woman after woman) to help him fill the hole.
back at the car he cried for the first time since her death and clung to
me like a little boy, the spirit leaving his body, abandoning sinking
bones and flesh grasping at something (anything) to keep his mass from
seeping into the earth. he told me her ashes had felt warm on the seat
next to him, and that he would give anything in this world to have one
more pizza with her on a friday night.
we ate at friendly’s on the way home and then i went to a nightclub.
people grieve differently.
Jennifer audits for pay and writes for sanity at just-jennies.blogspot.com. She
spends too many hours deliberating internet purchases and rarely washes her hair.
© 2013 – 2012, Metazen.