Poetic Cataclysm

My poetry hit him

Before I did

He gave me

Feedback

That sounded

Like backtalk

I don’t know

What he wanted

Me to hear

But I heard

What I didn’t like

And the next thing I knew

The poem

Was a fight

Back at the bar

The two drinks

I didn’t forget to finish

Were waiting for me

To call them up

Hmm…

I don’t know

If it’s right

To tell war stories

During peacetime

I don’t know

If poetry is appropriate

During fictional

Transactions

I don’t know

What I’m supposed to know

But I know

That when a man steps up to you

After you’ve left yourself

Two stanzas back

In two different glasses

With a little silt on the bottom

That the bartender

Told you

Was heartbreak

Seawater

With the sweat

Of a sailor

Then you answer

That man

With a poem

That’s a fight

That’s a close call

That’s call for closing

That’s last call

That’s going to get you

Sent home

With a warning

And the blood

Of a foolish man

On your favorite

Grey

Shirt

Let’s pretend

That happy men

Don’t wind up

With a sick day

In their future

And their day job

Making them feel

Like a big slob

Who can’t keep his fists

To himself

I’ve had my worst days

At night

Debating whether or not

Tv would make me

Feel like I could be

In someone else’s story

And hold off sleep

When sleep keeps me

Believing

That when I wake up

My grey shirt

Will be clean

And I’ll mean it

When I say

I’m okay

I’m okay

I’m okay?

Tomorrow’s going to be hot

And the day after not

But someday after that

I’ll rat myself out

By talking about how

I beat up a guy

And wound up with a black eye

But nobody cried

Because the open mic

Doesn’t like

When you make it

About you

I said my poem

Knowing

I’d leave alone

But on the way out

The guy I punched

Gave me a shout

And asked me

If I needed

Some help

I don’t know

Why I said ‘Yes’

Anybody’s guess, but…

The last day

Of me being that way

Was that night

And, all right,

I guess that’s all

I should say