(For Darin Bulai)
I don’t know how to make sense of anything.
Every day things slip away.
I don’t even know what those things are and why I cared about them in the first place.
I reach out and it doesn’t do much good.
I come off angry, broken and resentful of everyone and everything.
Sometimes I wish I still drove so I could drive a car through the car wash.
I remember coming through the other side and everything being clean and feeling new.
I wonder if when we die if it will feel like that when we come through the other side. Like all of the grime, guilt and rage has been washed away and we’re transformed with a fresh sense of purpose.
Sometimes I wish I could drive off the edge of the world. Never looking back at all of the damage I have caused and all of the love I never could quite get a handle on.
I don’t know how to make sense of any of it. Including the fucking trees and all of the shadowy indifference we settle for like spinach on our plate to go along with the crow.
Every night things are just out of reach.
I don’t even know if it matters anymore and why I spend any time at all wishing we were closer and had had some discussions making us better and more tolerant people.
I do not see the sense in buying a firearm and hunting animals for sport.
I cannot seem to get any of these pieces to fit. As poets go I’m a so-so handyman and a terrific pain in the ass.