Powder

I believe this is the last poem that I wrote for my creative writing class that I actually edited and handed in. On Thursday, when I read three of my poems to the class, I had a sudden realization that most of my poems are really dark. Most of them seem to focus on the down and outs, the druggies, the prostitutes, "White Trash" and "Beardo". In fact this made me realize that there is a definate distinction between what I write and emo. To be certain, some of my stuff has been fairly introspective, but most of it is about other people or things. When it gets as dark as some of my stuff it's a small line, but it's a big deal. On that note here's the poem.

Powder
down the front steps
white sneakers left behind to bake in the sunshine
and far out in the field you lie
mesmerized by the white rabbit
white whale
albino everything in the sky

beneath you is a world of dark
you dig in black loam and find
oily white tuber roots
remember one time back home
dog's ear sitting in the trash can
maggots like ants, milling

your whole world turned around
and from then on
it was all ash from a chimney fire
or snow by the late night light of the streetlamp
the universe glimpsed from your bedside
white powder, illuminated dark

snorted in a downtown hotel
beauty takes its time
and then its toll
heads banging on a short carpet
think of nothing else
you don't remember anymore

awake to white walls and watching rerun tv
you OD'd and hit the floor
buck stops at the bottom
watching Charlie Chaplin faded Buster Keaton
pratfalls in a nearby hurricane
nothing fades to grey in film reels
just shades of black and white

so one day you'll walk out
put on a clean cotton shirt
good to the skin
ready for dirt stains
find a field
leave your shoes behind

Zen Master