It’s Up, and you know it’s Down.
Hesitating, I shouldn’t judge, but all
the other humans live a level-
headed life. The only level for me
is the three-foot long, six-pound
one that someone dropped from
the thirty-fourth floor, obliterating
my head while I was eating a delight-
ful egg salad sandwich at the expensive
cafe that charges table time (being that
their sidewalk tables are so Lilly-white), by
the minute and coffee, by the drip, but I
can’t blame that level for my volatile
mud-faced, chaotic piece of whacked
living in the world of an Ozzy reality
show. How I wish I had Ozzy’s
accent, and when I was drinking,
I would sputter dastardly words that
sounded like shit seeping out from
a crock pot lid with hot dogs in boiling
water, gray hot dogs that would be,
just like Ozzy (me, not the hot dogs),
just like Ozzy, and I was jolly, too.
Yes, it’s Up and it’s Down and it’s
all too real like grinding sand storms
in my eyes when emotional
pain comes from hollow, dead trees
with empty nooses. Today was my
Up, and why shan’t I be agreeable with
Up while she’s here, and not dread
Down, knowing, factually, he’ll be back,
knowing I won’t stop him, but for now
he is off playing lawn tennis in India,
chewing the red, rubber balls with fluor-
escent yellow fuzz, tangling like wire
all over his cheeks, splotched like ketch-
up because someone else is able to whip
his ass in straight sets, not allowing him
to even hold serve (wishing I could watch).
He’ll come back for me, but he
always gets bored and Up will be
back and she and I will picnic in a
violently-warm, pink rainbow.