My friend draws tattoos on women with
bodies like spiders.
He says it makes him happy.
Every day I tell him he is a good person,
that he has a good heart.
He says he knows this.
One way or another, he says, the world is like
a sheet of glass-you can either look
through it or break it down,
but if you break it down, your knuckles
won’t survive the bust.
I don’t know how to do anything.
I am a writer; it’s what I do.
It doesn’t even put food on my table.
I try to write about nature; about birds
and bees and pirates. It never comes out
right. My friend, who is an artist,
always has the upper hand-
he’s the kind who smokes cigarettes
on occasion, and can make friends in
every situation, even though he knows
they are part-time friends, not real friends
that people really need.
Somehow, I always make
enemies. I wear glasses; they are like two
sheets of glass. But it doesn’t make me
feel better. Nothing does. I still make
the music, still eat the food,
even though it’s disgusting and I feel like
throwing it up, feel like smoking weed
and drinking booze and I never do.
Nothing ever works out the way I want it to.
People hate me more than average.