on believing that a funk has been defeated

Published September 3, 2012 by April Fox

driving down the road                                                                                    
reading shit poetry and accidentally singing
a few off-key notes
for the first time ever
in front of him
i knew that life was good and the next day
one blink, one word that wasn’t said
one caught breath sent me
face-first
under the covers, sent me
into the dark, silent
dumb and still
i could
not
move i
could
not speak i
could
not feel i
could
not
feel
anything
buried
made not of granite
like the songs would make you think
like the cliches believe we are
but spit and ash
and bits of paper, written on
in harsh black
permanent
ink
i
slept.
drawn out by
the simple touch
of a hand i know
like my own
i thought i made it
through
strapped on fairy wings and half-crawled
to my favorite coffee dive
curled up in tattered armchair in the back
and begged a chai
iced
from the man behind
the counter
i don’t know his name
if he has one, which i think
that he may not
smiled wide and fake
felt for a minute
like i might just
make it out
sat down
some twenty hours later
surrounded by the warmth and silence
wind slaps chimes outside and i wish
a storm would come and the truth is
underneath the costumes
hiding just beyond his reach
i am theirs, i am
owned
-and gratefully
-if i owned myself
i’d trade me in
for sure.

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