A Little Dragon

Martha has a little dragon

And its name is Miss Lenore

Martha loves her little dragon

But Miss Lenore is quite the bore

She refuses to set fire

To the things that Martha loathes

Miss Lenore’s no fan of arson

And, in fact, she dreams of one day

Being a firefighter

Even though Martha

Tells her that’s absurd

Miss Lenore, says Martha,

Won’t you set fire to my school?

So that I can stay home in bed

And watch The Money Door?

The Money Door is Martha’s favorite game show

One door has money

One does not

Miss Lenore deplores The Money Door

And tells Martha she should be studying

Instead of trying to get her little dragon

To set fire to her school

Someone, says Miss Lenore,

Could get very hurt

Or worse

Not if you do it on a Saturday, says Martha

Or a Sunday night

The right time and everything will be fine

With only ashes left behind

Martha, Martha, says Miss Lenore

That’s enough, now stop

No more

Martha has a little dragon

But the dragon

Never flies

Take me up into the clouds

Says Martha to Miss Lenore

I want to fly above my friends

And their houses

And their cars

I’m afraid of heights, says Miss Lenore

So I couldn’t take you very far

Besides, she says, I’m sure someone

Would probably shoot me down

You can’t just go a-flying

Like a pilot

Over town

I’d need to get a permit

Or a license

Something saying

That I could

Oh Miss Lenore, says Martha

I do wish you weren’t so good

Martha means it

It seems pointless

To have a dragon

Who won’t breathe fire

Or fly

Or scare Martha’s teachers
Or her brother

Or her mother

She won’t let Martha climb on her

To slip and slide along her scales

Climbing in her mouth is out as well

‘If I sneeze,’ says Miss Lenore

‘I’m afraid you’d be impaled’

Miss Lenore tries telling Martha

‘Look both ways’ and--

‘Eat your greens’

‘I thought,’ said Martha

‘That you’d eat whole cows

Plucked from fields

Scooped into your talons

And gobbled down your gullet!’

But Miss Lenore just shakes her head

‘I am,’ she says, ‘Just a little dragon

‘I simple couldn’t eat that way’

So she sticks to chard and celery

And keeps refusing to obey

Martha wishes that her dragon

Was like the kind she sees in books

But Miss Lenore, though quite a bore,

Did have other things in store

At night, she’d tuck in Martha

Then read her stories of knights and kings

And when the lights were off

She’d sit in Martha’s bedroom window

Whistling out to wishing stars

Do you ever make a wish, asks Martha

What would I wish for, asks Miss Lenore

To be a bigger dragon, Martha suggests

I guess I could wish for that, says Miss Lenore

Chewing the idea

Then sneezing it away

Charring the curtains a bit

And sending Martha right into a fit

Go to sleep, says Miss Lenore

Dream of all those bigger dragons

That I’m not

Martha can see that Miss Lenore

Was hurt by the idea

That she should wish for something more

‘Come here,’ says Martha

Pushing aside the covers

And patting her pillow

‘I can’t,’ says Miss Lenore,

‘I have to keep watch

So the stars don’t get ideas’

‘Just for a minute,’ says Martha,

‘Until I fall asleep’

Miss Lenore grumbles

But then floats into bed

Tucking the covers

Over her and Martha’s head

‘Will you be my little dragon forever,’ asks Martha

And Miss Lenore says, ‘Of course’

She covers Martha with her wing

And Martha smells smoke and lavender

A wind comes in from the window

And a star gets a big idea

Martha wishes her little dragon a lovely good night

And Miss Lenore waits until her little girl is asleep

Before she winks at the window

And, ready to fly,

She stretches her wings

And goes into the sky

Clarissa Can't Explain a Damn Thing

                (CLARISSA’s old bedroom.  CLARISSA sits next to her daughter SAM on the bed.)

SAM:  How long are we staying here?

CLARISSA:  Until I get a new job.

SAM:  Have you thought about another career?

CLARISSA:  I’m a journalist, Sam.

SAM:  And journalism is dying.

CLARISSA:  Sam—

SAM:  It’s dying, Mom.  In your case, it’s already dead.  Why would you even go into a field like that?

CLARISSA:  Like what?

SAM:  One so antiquated.

CLARISSA:  It wasn’t antiquated when I went into it.  Believe it or not, it was actually considered a pretty safe career choice.

SAM:  Oh.

CLARISSA:  And since when do you say antiquated?

SAM:  It’s a word.

CLARISSA:  I talked to you too much when you were a baby.

SAM:  Mom—

CLARISSA:  You picked up too much.  You know too much.  I feel like I’m living with a double agent.

SAM:  I feel like living here is going to be a trigger for you.

CLARISSA:  A trigger for what?  My depression or my anxiety?

SAM:  Both?

CLARISSA:  I can handle being depressed and I can handle being anxious, as long as I’m not both at the same time.  The problem is, they require separate medication, and you can’t take them together, so I have to choose.

SAM:  So which do you choose?

CLARISSA:  I usually just close my eyes, pop one in my mouth, and see what happens.

SAM:  Well, that sounds fine.

CLARISSA:  Your father should be here any minute.

                (A ladder hits the window.)

CLARISSA:  Bingo.

SAM:  What?

CLARISSA:  That’s him.

SAM:  Who?

CLARISSA:  Your Dad.

                (SAMUEL pokes his head into the window.)

SAMUEL:  Hey dude.

SAM:  Dad, don’t call me dude, I’m a girl.

SAMUEL:  I’m ignoring gender stereotypes.

SAM:  Don’t.  It’s weird.

CLARISSA:  You felt like taking a trip up the ladder for old time’s sake?

SAMUEL:  No, your brother was sitting on the front steps crying, and I didn’t want to find out why.

SAM:  He’s probably crying because he still lives at home with his parents.

CLARISSA:  Sam, please.  That’s your uncle.

SAM:  He’s a turd.

CLARISSA and SAMUEL:  Sam!/Dude!

SAM:  That’s what you guys call him!

CLARISSA:  We’re allowed to call him that.  We’ve known him longer.

SAM:  I can’t believe we’re living here with him.  (To SAMUEL.)  Can’t I just come live with you?

CLARISSA:  I don’t want you living with him.

SAM:  Why not?

CLARISSA:  Because he’s a man-child.  (To SAMUEL.)  No offense.

SAMUEL:  None taken.  I’m working out a lot of stuff right now, but I have to go year-by-year.  My therapist thinks trauma needs to be confronted in chronological order, but some years take longer than others to get through.  Right now, we’re working on Year 7.

SAM:  What happened when you were seven?

SAMUEL:  I got bit by an alligator.

SAM:  How the hell did that happen?

CLARISSA:  Sam, please, language.

SAM:  Seriously?

CLARISSA:  Pretend you’re a teenager from the 1950’s and say ‘heck.’

SAM:  Heck?

CLARISSA:  Heck.

SAM:  (To SAMUEL.)  How did an alligator bite you?

SAMUEL:  Your Mom used to have an alligator in her room.

SAM:  In her room?

                (CLARISSA flops on the bed.)

CLARISSA:  Do we have to tell her everything?  Must I answer for all my sins?

SAM:  You had an alligator in your room?

CLARISSA:  Yes, I was very quirky when I was younger.  Time has extinguished that part of my personality.

SAM:  You wouldn’t even let me have a kitten.

CLARISSA:  I hate cats.

SAM:  But you like alligators?

CLARISSA:  I did.  I used to like a lot of things.

SAM:  Here we go.

CLARISSA:  I so different then.

SAM:  To hell with this—

                (She gets up to go.)

CLARISSA:  Sam—

SAM:  Hell is not a swear word, Mom.  It’s a imaginary place Christians made up.

SAMUEL:  Is she not Christian anymore?

CLARISSA:  She’s Vestual.

SAMUEL:  What’s that?

CLARISSA:  I don’t know.  She made it up.

SAMUEL:  Making up religions?  Way to go, dude.  Stick it to the patriarchy.

SAM:  I think religion is a very personal thing.

CLARISSA:  She won’t even tell me what Vestual means.

SAM:  It’s personal.

CLARISSA:  Does it have anything to do with sex?

SAM:  Ew!  No.

CLARISSA:  Then I’m cool with it.

SAMUEL:  I’m cool with it too.  And as far as sex goes—

CLARISSA:  We’re shutting that down right now.

SAMUEL:  It’s healthy to talk about sex, Clarissa.

CLARISSA:  We’ll talk about it when Sam is ready to talk about it.

SAM:  I could talk about it now.

CLARISSA:  Well, I can’t.  Not here.  Not now.  Not in my childhood bedroom where I’m going to be sleeping on the floor so my daughter can have my old bed and retain some semblance of normalcy.

SAMUEL:  It’s not like that bed is unfamiliar to, uh—

CLARISSA/SAM:  STOP!/OH MY GOD I WANT TO DIE!

SAMUEL:  C’mon, we’re all adults here.

SAM:  No, we’re not.  I’m fourteen.

SAMUEL:  In many cultures, you’re an adult.

CLARISSA:  She’s Vestual, Samuel.  They don’t reach puberty until forty.

SAMUEL:  Really?

SAM:  She’s making that up.

CLARISSA:  See?  Two can play that game.

                (FERGUSON knocks.)

FERGUSON:  Hello.

                (CLARISSA stands up and walks to him.)

CLARISSA:  Hi Ferguson.  (To SAM.)  Sam, say hi to your Uncle.

SAM:  Hi Uncle Ferguson.

FERGUSON:  Back to the roost, I see.  My how the mighty have fallen.

CLARISSA:  I can’t say I was ever all that mighty, Ferguson.

FERGUSON:  Hello Samuel.  I see you’re still dressing like a sous chef at a vegan restaurant.

SAMUEL:  When are you going to prison, Ferguson?

CLARISSA:  Sam!

SAMUEL/SAM:  What?/What?

CLARISSA:  Sorry, I forget there are two of you now.  Why did I name you Sam?

SAM:  I don’t know.  I’d rather be named Janet.

CLARISSA:  That was my mother’s name!  We almost named you that.

SAM:  You should’ve.  Sam is a stupid name.  (To SAMUEL.)  No offense.

SAMUEL:  None taken.  I was named after my grandfather.  Apparently he was a Holocaust denier.  (A beat.)  I didn’t find that out until I was ten so I haven’t fully processed it yet.

FERGUSON:  (To CLARISSA.)  I can’t believe you had a child with him.

CLARISSA:  I can’t believe you’re not in jail.

FERGUSON:  Only criminals go to jail.  I’m a whistleblower.

CLARISSA:  Offering to give the F.B.I. a list of the hookers your boss hired so you won’t go to jail for insider trading does not count as being a whistleblower.

SAMUEL:  (Looking at SAM.)  Clarissa—

CLARISSA:  She already knows.

SAMUEL:  How?

SAM:  I saw it on Buzzfeed.

SAMUEL:  Fucking Buzzfeed.

SAM:  Besides, it’s not like Uncle Ferguson hired the hookers.  His crime was, like, really unsexy.

FERGUSON:  Insider trading is very sexy.

CLARISSA, SAMUEL, and SAM:  No, it’s not./Nope./Like, not at all.

FERGUSON:  I had a two-day segment on The Today Show.  You think they do that for just anybody?

CLARISSA:  Did your lawyer tell you to do that show?

FERGUSON:  He said it was fine.

SAM:  Was that before or after you fired him?

FERGUSON:  Before.  Why?

SAMUEL:  You’re going to prison, Fergwad.

FERGUSON:  Hey!

SAM:  I agree.

                (FERGUSON turns to CLARISSA.)

FERGUSON:  I don’t think you living here is going to work out, Clarissa.

CLARISSA:  Well, it’s not your house, it’s Dad’s.  So it’s really not up to you.

FERGUSON:  Dad is old and feeble.  He can’t be expected to make decisions for himself.

CLARISSA:  He’s sixty-four.

FERGUSON:  Mom dying took a toll.

CLARISSA:  He remarried—twice.

FERGUSON:  And the last divorce was very contentious.

CLARISSA:  Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to take care of him since you won’t be around much longer.

FERGUSON:  What’s that supposed to mean?

SAMUEL:  She means you’re going to prison.

FERGUSON:  I am not going to prison!  I made a deal!

CLARISSA:  You did?

FERGUSON:  Yes!  With the F.B.I.!

SAM:  Buzzfeed said there was no deal.

FERGUSON:  Fucking Buzzfeed.

SAM:  They said you’re going to jail.

FERGUSON:  I made a deal.

CLARISSA:  Did you get it in writing?

FERGUSON:  We shook on it.

SAMUEL:  Oh man.

CLARISSA:  You shook on it?

FERGUSON:  Yes!

CLARISSA:  Whose hand did you shake?

FERGUSON:  One of the agents.

SAM:  I don’t think that’ll hold up in court.

FERGUSON:  We made a gentleman’s agreement.

CLARISSA:  This isn’t Downton Abbey, Ferguson.  You should have gotten it in writing.

FERGUSON:  But I can’t go to prison.  I have sporadic asthma and I’m allergic to almonds.

SAMUEL:  Make sure you let the prison chef know that when you get there.

FERGUSON:  You listen to me, Clarissa.  No matter what happens—you are not getting my room!

CLARISSA:  As if I’d want to sleep in your masturbatorium.

SAM:  Mom!

CLARISSA:  I’m sorry, but he gets me so worked up.

FERGUSON:  I’m telling Dad what you said.

SAMUEL:  Hey Ferguson, I’d dye my hair before they put me away.  Gingers aren’t that high up on the prison food chain.

FERGUSON:  I MADE A DEAL!

                (He exits.)

SAM:  Thank god I’m an only child.

CLARISSA:  That was my gift to you.

SAMUEL:  And also, I got into this weird biking accident after you were born, and I’m pretty sure everything stopped working down there after that.  Well, not everything, but—

CLARISSA/SAM:  She gets it, Sam./Ewwwww!

SAMUEL:  I gotta go.  I have a trust seminar to lead in the park.

                (He goes to the ladder.)

SAM:  Remember, this is my weekend with you.

SAMUEL:  I thought that was last weekend.

SAM:  Actually, it was the weekend before last weekend, but you blew me off, so it’s been over a month since we spent quality time together and I’m concerned that the lack of a father figure in my life will eventually lead to me marrying an older man who bosses me around and makes me get Botox when I don’t really need it.  (A beat.  She laughs.)  I’m just kidding.  Next weekend is your weekend.

SAMUEL:  (Breathing a sigh of relief.)  You’re a really scary little dude.

SAM:  Bye Dad.

SAMUEL:  Hey Clarissa, it’s kind of cool seeing you in your old room again.

CLARISSA:  You say ‘cool,’ I say ‘mortifying.’

SAMUEL:  Maybe you needed a reset, you know?  Find out who you used to be?

CLARISSA:  Sam, this isn’t Dawson’s Creek.  Go back down the ladder before Paula Cole starts playing.

                (SAMUEL goes down the ladder as he does the “doo doo doo doo’s” from ‘I Don’t Wanna Wait.’)

SAM:  He’s such a loser.

CLARISSA:  I know, but he was my loser.

SAM:  Is that supposed to be romantic or something?

CLARISSA:  Sam, one day you’ll learn that there are only about two to five winners in the world.  The rest of us are losers.  So you try to find a loser that fits you.  That’s the best you can hope for.

SAM:  Remind me to never let you work the suicide hotline.

CLARISSA:  You probably won’t believe this, but…I used to be really cool.  I mean, I was really, really cool.

SAM:  Why would I not believe that?  You’re cool now.

CLARISSA:  You’re just saying that because I’m in charge of feeding you.

SAM:  I haven’t eaten since this morning.

CLARISSA:  I didn’t say I was doing a good job at it.

                (A beat.  CLARISSA sits back on the bed next to SAM.)

SAM:  I’m sorry you lost your job.

CLARISSA:  I really loved being a journalist.

SAM:  There must be something else you love.

CLARISSA:  Maybe when I was younger, there was.  I narrowed my entire life down to a few things so I could get them right, and it didn’t even work.

SAM:  What things?

CLARISSA:  My career, my marriage—

SAM:  Me?

CLARISSA:  I think I got you pretty right—so far anyway.  If you end up dealing drugs, don’t tell me, okay?  I don’t want to know.

SAM:  Maybe this is an opportunity for you to rediscover a lost passion.

CLARISSA:  I just wish I had someone to explain things to me the way I used to explain stuff to everybody else.

SAM:  How would younger you have explained all this to, you know, you you?

CLARISSA:  She probably would have made a video game about it.

SAM:  You used to make video games?

CLARISSA:  Yeah, you know, like computer games.  I used to make them in my spare time.  It was a way of letting off steam.

SAM:  Did they not have boxing bags back then?

CLARISSA:  It was fun.  I used to superimpose my face on—

SAM:  Whoa, whoa, whoa—it sounds like you pretty skillful, Mom.

CLARISSA:  I mean, I guess.  Back then, computers were pretty basic.

SAM:  When was the last time you made a computer game?

CLARISSA:  Probably last week.  I ran into this problem at the market—I couldn’t find the kind of cheese I like, and I was so mad, so I went home, and I made this game where I’m running through the supermarket looking for the cheese—

SAM:  Mom!

CLARISSA:  What?

SAM:  You can design computer games?  That’s insane!

CLARISSA:  Is it?

SAM:  That never occurred to you?

CLARISSA:  I just do it for fun.

SAM:  Mom, computers mean money.  You should look into this.

CLARISSA:  I mean, I guess I—

SAM:  Where’s the laptop?

CLARISSA:  Um, it’s in my bad downstairs—

SAM:  I need to start researching this.  Maybe I can have us out of this house by summer.  (She gives CLARISSA a peck on the cheek, and then looks her in the eyes.)  We’re going to be okay, okay?

CLARISSA:  Okay.

SAM:  Okay!

                (She exits.  CLARISSA lays down on the bed.  She starts to sing softly.)

CLARISSA:  Na na na na…Na na na na na…

A Corner of the World

There's a corner of the world
That used to house a sheltered light
But the light went out
And now
That corner
Finds itself concerned

Where there once was warmth
There's cold
Where there had been safety
There's uncertainty
Where life was present
Now it's dark

Death has kissed the doorway
Death has left its mark

So we ride around in circles
Adjacent places, isolated
That used to be connected
To that corner of the world

The people who would visit
Feel torn up by their guilt
Did they visit it enough?
Did they keep the fire burning?
Did they do their best?

They're the ones who ride around
They're the ones who dial the number
To hear a ring they know will carry
But will never be received

They stand and stare at empty windows
Questioning if they've lost their minds
They buy flowers when they remember
That the light was buried somewhere
And that spot should be kept up
With remembrances
By those
Who never found themselves remembering
When remembering
Mattered most

A calendar says times goes by
But the mind says time can shrink
It can sit inside your eyes
And wait for you to blink

The details you forget
Snap back at you
At times when it's convenient
But often, when it's not

A word or worry drops the air out
The business busies itself
Until it stops

Then you're a mess
And then you're fine
And 'fine' means you're a mess
But you can smile

You can cry when you're alone
You can shake your head so hard
That it swipes away the truth

You can put on all the shows
That make people
Aim their gaze
Away from you

But you can't produce the light
That's needed in the here and now

Your corner's still in flux
It's still not shining
Bright enough

This place will get there someday
But right now, it sits in shadow
Where before
The shining corner
Was enough
To fill the world

It filled your world
And overflowed it

It made everywhere
Look
Like home

There was a corner of the world
That for some, was all the world
And so some move right past it
Thinking nothing of the dark

And others sit and wait
For that old light to reappear

While others say Remember

Remember

Remembering that corner
Back when it was lit and full

Can produce another light
Another corner
Another time
Another try

The dark is dark
For it's forgotten
And lost is lost
And dead is dead

So remember and the light
All that light
Could shine again

A Man from Town

A man from town died today

He was not an extraordinary man

On the contrary, he was just a man from town

He had a small apartment in town

And in that small apartment

He had furniture that was not new

One room of his apartment was bare

Except for a stack of books

That he never got around to reading

There was a shopping bag with a receipt in it

For a shirt he meant to return

And we know he was going to return the shirt

Because there was a note on his fridge

That said ‘Return shirt to store’

The shirt, however, was not in the bag

Nor in his closet

And this was a mystery after he died

Almost anything can be made into a mystery

After someone dies

Usually by the people the dead person
Leaves behind

And these mysteries are invented

So as to create a counterargument to death

‘But how can he be dead?  He had a shirt to return.

Surely, he’d have to return the shirt before he died.

And where IS the shirt?

No, this is fishy.
This is very fishy.
The only answer is—he can’t be dead.’

But he is, in fact, dead

And the mystery isn’t a mystery at all

The man gave the shirt away to someone he worked with

And forgot to throw out the shopping bag and the receipt

And the note about returning the shirt

An ordinary problem
An ordinary man

An ordinary set of events

That never took place

Because death intervened

The man from town was known by people from town

And by a few people who are not from town

And he was liked by many people

And he was disliked by a few people

And he was totally unknown to the rest of the world

And that would have been the case

No matter who the man was

He had a job , and it was fine

He had friends, and they were fine

He had hopes and dreams and goals

And they were all fine too

If unrealized

He drove a car that needed an oil change

He made his bed, but not until he got home from work

He did his laundry at a Laundromat

And while it washed and dried

He read a series of fictional books about a fictional lawyer

Who seemed very, very real to him

In a way, the man from town

Wanted to be an extraordinary fictional lawyer

But instead, he was who he was

Not much of anyone

He was not exceptionally handsome

He was not exceptionally charming

He was not exceptional

He was smart, but not bright

He was clear, but not eloquent

He was nice, but not kind

Sensible but not wise

He’d never served in combat

Or ran for office

Or made lots of money

Or lost lots of money

Or written anything noteworthy

Or loved deeply

Or mourned

His parents passed away

And he cried

And that was that

His sister fell out with him
Over something silly

And she would not be attending his funeral

Because of her own guilt

But she would say it was because of what happened between them

Even though she couldn’t remember exactly what it was

Whatever it was

It was not…exceptional

The man from town’s death was not exceptional

It was quick and quiet

There was pain

Because death is painful

But the pain didn’t last

And after it was…

We have no idea of knowing

Because we are not dead

Only the dead

Can know the pain of death
And what follows it

News of the death of the man from town spreads throughout town

And a little bit beyond town

But no further than that

It is a minor disruption

In the ordinary days

Of the ordinary people

Who receive the news

And then routines resettle

Laundry goes from the washer to the dryer

Shirts are returned

And other ordinary people

Live and die

. . . . .

A man from town died today

This is his body
This is his home

These are his friends
These are his books

That was his car

That was his job

And that’s all we know

But we’ll sit for awhile

In case anyone comes

Who knows more

In case somebody misses him
Or somebody loved him

Or somebody wants

To tell us

His name

A Funeral in Java

If this was a vacation

It would be quite the vacation

Twelve days in Java

But for a funeral

For a friend

And even friend is…

A complicated word

In this situation

A beach funeral

Because they have those

Did you know that?

They have beach funerals now

Just like beach weddings

Which, you know, you’ve been to a few of those

But the waves sound louder

Here at the beach funeral

Than they have at the weddings you’ve been to

Maybe it’s Java

Maybe the waves are louder here

You cough

And the woman behind you turns around

You think about shooting her a look

But it’s a funeral

People are grieving

People are angry

You can’t get angry

Then again, if you did

You could say it’s because of the grief

Why should the woman in front of you be exempt?

Why is the other person in the situation

Always exempt?

The plane ride home is going to be a nightmare

You flushed your pills down the toilet

In the hotel

It took three flushes
That’s how many pills there were

You knew you would only screwing over Future You

Future You who needs those goddamn pills

To even set FOOT on that plane

But…but but but…

Your mother used to say that

But but but

Why the hell would someone want to be set out to sea

On a beach in a place

She’d never been to before?

Why would anybody want that?

Such an inconvenience to—

Well, pretty much anyone

Who doesn’t already live in Java

Which is, you know, most of the world

You pick at your cuticles

You’re nervous

You’re sweating

Hot would be too kind a word for the kind of weather

You’re experiencing

You desire gum, mints, air freshener

Anything

Your mouth feels dry and moldy

Your eyes are bloodshot

You got no sleep last night

And your sunglasses fell off and cracked

The second you stepped outside the hotel

Your hair is a mess

Your clothes aren’t ironed

Your sense of decorum is non-existent

It’s palpable how much you hate being here

It’s an aura that’s sliding off you

Like skin off a snake

You didn’t wear the proper anything

This, apparently, was a casual beach funeral

Shorts and t-shirts, even some bathing suits

What a send-off, you think

What a way to go

When it’s your turn to go up to the coffin

And touch it

To say your good-bye

Before it’s put on some sort of raft

And sent out into the noisy waves

You can’t seem to set your hand down on the curved wood

You breathe in sharply

As you pull your hand back

And you think—

What’s wrong with me?

I’m not upset

I’m not sad

I’m irritated

I’m frustrated

I’m, you know, whatever

But I’m not sad

But you’re here, aren’t you?

You flew to Java

At a moment’s notice

You still haven’t told your boss

Where you are

You didn’t bring a suitcase

You don’t have the money to be here

You’re going to have to pay for all of this somehow

But you don’t have any idea how that’s going to happen

And you say you’re not affected by any of this, but…

But but but

You’re here

You put your hand down

On the coffin

Feeling activation

As if a door is going to open somewhere

Having recognized the imprint of your palm

And on the other side of that door

Will be her

‘You’re here,’ she’ll say, ‘You came’

And you’ll say ‘Of course I came’

Then she’ll say—

‘Well, you look like shit’

And you’ll laugh

And you’ll hug

And you’ll catch up

And you’ll sit
And you’ll visit

And things will be well

All will be well

And will continue to be well

And your hand will stay pressed

To that coffin

As it buries itself in the sand

And castles spring up

With friends

And family
And those we call Lost

And the waves will get softer and softer

Until the ocean is asleep

And the whole world

Is listening

To what sounds like someone crying

A Hard Way to Learn

I will tell you…

I will tell you (Laughs)
Boy oh boy

It’s a hard way to learn

I’m sure you’d rather be next to him right now

Posting convictions in his ear

About what he should

And-should-not

Be doing

Totally understandable

But the problem is, you see

You fell in love

With a man who can’t be loved

Who takes love

And rolls it over

Until it’s flat

And won’t do nothin’ for nobody

You can’t make a case to somebody like that

They already found themselves guilty

Long before you got there

So now you’re wondering

If I feel bad

That I was stop three

On a six-stop night

Well—

Not really, honey

Not really at all

What I wanna know is

Are you gonna hit up the other five houses too?

See what they have to say

For themselves?

Because you do that

And one of those fools

Is gonna take a couple of your teeth out

Just because they feel like it

I’m not much of a fighter

I’m into passive resistance

So here I am

Sitting

Drinking
Offering you a smoke

Passively

Resisting

(Laughs)

Oh honey, I sympathize with your calamity

You could just love somebody easy

But where’s the fun in that

Instead you found a magic trick

You couldn’t learn

And you’re looking at me

Thinking I know how

To bring the rabbit back

Let me tell you something, darlin’

We’ve all been fooled

By the same trick

But the thing about me is—

I’m not trying to figure it out

I don’t know wanna know

How he does

What he does

I got my own magic

And you got yours too

You just don’t know what it is yet

You wanna know what mine is?

I can see into the future

One day, that man’s gonna be shot

By some woman

Who’s had enough

It won’t be you

But it’ll be somebody

One shot, through the heart

And that’ll be the end of him

I told him what I saw

But he brushed me off

Like I was dust on a book jacket

I told him it wouldn’t be long

Before I’m seeing

Becomes what I see

Blood soaking through a nice tan shirt

Hot, so it must be summer

Dark, so it must be nighttime

Cicadas and beer bottles

A song from 1991 playing on an old jukebox

I gave him all the information

But he didn’t want to hear it

Probably because he knows

He’s going to go barreling into that future

The same way he’s been dashing away from his past

Blind and scared

Blind and scared

And of a little bit of him thinks I might just be

Some crazy bitch

But he’ll learn

He’ll be laying there dying

Thinking, Shit, that bitch was crazy

But she was right too

And you know what?

That’ll be a hard way to learn

How about you, honey?

You wanna know what your future is?

You wanna know what music I’m hearing

When I look at you?

What kind of beer I’m smelling

On the breath

Of the man who stops your heart?

What he’s wearing

What you’re wearing

What the name of the girl is next to him?

Or how about his name?

You want his name?

(A beat)

Yeah, I didn’t think you did

Some things you can’t hear

From some woman at a bar

Whose cigarette’s almost out

Some things you just gotta learn about

On your own