Scenes from Friday the Thirteenth, 2016.

A run-through of the unluckiest day of the year. A narrative poem inspired by Peter Orlovsky (namely "First (or Frist) Poem".)

~~~

It’s hard to wake up sometimes because it’s hard to fall asleep,

Yet I wake up anyway and get ready for

Work, sounds strange.

I say good morning to my mother who doesn’t say good morning back

Because she’s praying for my soul.

I look at my brother and he doesn’t look at me.

I leave without breakfast.

I take the first bus to campus and ignore the high school kids

Even though they’re not much younger than me,

Then feel bad for doing that.

The audacity.

~~~

I get to the office and work for six hours straight, no lunch.

Someone looks at me and says, “You look a little rough.”

I decide to get a coffee and two sandwiches to make myself feel better

Because for some reason, the room starts to spin.

I’ve got to run to the bus stop soon after

With busted Vans and the world still

Spinning.

~~~

On the bus, I listen to music and imagine the life of others.

Call it a writing exercise but that’s a lie.

I imagine one man in a suit is cheating on his wife,

Or a woman who is sleeping is dreaming of what could’ve been,

Then I felt bad for doing that

Because I think it’d make a great story.

The audacity.

~~~

I get home and take a nap.

Dream of a boy my age

Where anytime he touched my skin, it’d burn

And fall to the floor in chunks

And I’d scream.

~~~

I wake up and think of it, and think of it,

And the only thing I can think of is, “Damn, he was kind of cute.”

Soon after, I realise the boy from the dream was

The boy from English last semester, and feel bad.

The audacity.

~~~

Mom makes rice for dinner with stew.

I tell her about the dream, and she pauses to pray.

I watch her in the kitchen as she cooks, and wonder how life would be

If I were white.

Then feel like shit.

~~~

I eat in bed even though I’m not supposed to

Watch a bird out the window as it flies through the air

Towards a shrub, and think, “Safety.”

Watch a woman carry groceries from her car

As her son watches from the window

And think, “Damn, I’m glad I’m not old.”

Then feel like shit.

~~~

At night, when all is said and done,

And busses stop running and high school kids aren’t around and the world is still

Sleeping,

I pick up a book,

Read a page about Desolation,

And I think of it, and think of it,

And the only thing I can think of is

It was just six years ago

When Orlovsky died.

Such a beautiful face—

Where was I?

~~~

And I slept.

~~~