I Write In Rollercoasters
This morning, I was thinking it might be smart to wear my Doc Martens -
Like I’m straight edge, but not an asshole or a racist – and I drink alcohol and smoke drugs –
What if the narrator isn’t the one you expect?
He or she or they are speaking – and one or none of them are obvious -
Whispers within the back areas of an opera house you aren’t looking at – not at the correct angle - if you are paying attention (. And ?)
What if this is the show – what if this is the entertainment?
What if there aren’t alternative angles and perspectives?
“Are you a homosexual (?)”, she asks me, as I sit in a chair across a large and empty desk –
without ornaments or plants or family photos or a calendar of puppies
“I like dogs and despise musicals and Barbra Streisand’s music is garbage –
and I, occasionally, sway hither and thither as I walk, though I try not to – it fucks with my manly image -
And I’m an alright dancer, though my feet are larger than graceful -
And I enjoy poetry and gentle music that carries me into fantastical landscapes” – I say -
I tell her, “No – I am heterosexual”, and her pen places a checkmark within the box marked “homosexual”. I audibly exhale dramatically and look at her disapprovingly with the intensity of Shakespeare
My younger brother is a young deer, beautiful – or, handsome, if you’d prefer –
he grazes upon the grasslands at the edge of town, and, on most Fridays, I visit him and give him top-of-the-line feed and he prefers it –
He is my biological brother – my mother named him gently -
He smiles – and I’m thinking, “I love you, Derek” – as he rubs his black deer nose against my jeans, and I know he loves me as I love him
“I’m allergic to no foods or medications”, I say.
My brother’s nose glows red – and I’m proud of him
I always knew he’d do great things
What if the narrator isn’t the one you expect? Perhaps of a viewpoint you wouldn’t recognize – and what would that even mean? I, sitting on a fully cotton off-blue office chair beneath a plain black and white drawing of mice – and it isn’t good – waiting to see if the painting drips with beauty or with envy –
what if this isn’t even the appropriate question?
What if this is the story? What if I am the narrator?
Shadowy and confusing and not always speaking in familiar tones and colors?
What if I’m not what you’re expecting at all?
What if I am not what you are expecting, at all?
Photo: Jimmy Broccoli with Echo, the Beagle. Echo listens to children read to him every Wednesday at the library I manage. He promotes early literacy and he's a terrific listener!