I pull the covers over my eyes every time I read a good poem.
Cowering behind equal parts awe and inadequacy.
I learned about this thing called Genius from reading a lot of Langston Hughes. But Genius is kind of like God.
It shows up when it wants to and even when it does I’m not sure that it’s it.
I take Zoloft because sadness runs in my family. I take Zoloft to stifle my Genius. I take Zoloft because my search for Genius leaves me singing Prince songs loudly with my headphones on one minute and then crying on the bathroom floor the next.
I take Zoloft because I’m seeking out God.
This search scares people. Zoloft keeps me from scaring people.
I hide behind Zoloft and…
I pull the covers over my eyes whenever I read a good poem
because it’s easier sometimes to hide with the things that make you smile rather than sharing them.
It’s easier sometimes, that no one knows what makes you smile.
My chihuahuas make me smile and when they look at me with concern because my moods are extreme. I wonder, if I should hide them… in a poem.
I think I’m figuring out I like to hide things. To keep them safe
my greatest hiding place is poetry. Even with the fastest 30 second countdown you could never really find me.
Let’s hope Genius plays more fairly than God and Zoloft finds the way to keep me hidden.
Let’s hope that poetry keeps scaring the fuck out of me.
Makowski. This is what my mother calls herself via text after an afternoon of drinking.
She means to call herself Bukowski But even sober her texting skills are poor.
She loves Bukowski He makes her think of her father which in turn makes me think of my father
And then I drift to that thought that lingers always in the back of my head About fathers And drinking And violence
It seems we follow a similar stream if even we didn’t mean to.
The only difference is my father is still here and I was able to experience him through my teens long enough to hate a part of him.
I find that the emptiness is paralleled though. The longing for something not there. In her case, an actual alive being. In mine, someone I can’t make him be.
Mama Makowski and I have our fathers flowing through our veins. We adore them.
We fantasize about holding their hands and looking up at them with adulation.
A piggy back ride. A stroll through the park. A sincere and quaint sobering conversation over coffee.
Small desires, Mama Makowski and I share… An understanding