Donna Dallas


Why write…..Why pour out the ingredients
that I own. Cannot speak—I could never
say it—the messy tangled yarn of words and

what would I say anyway? How could
you know I have died several times trying
to get it right, make us good, make you laugh.

I am bad for you? So is smog and second hand
smoke and a good rare steak and what am I
to them if I am anything at all. People don’t want

for others what they cannot have for themselves.
Why write when I could have told you,
or the mailman, that I believe I am reincarnated.

An old soul, a soul of souls—but I’m through
counting my lives since the end of the world is fast
on its way, an ugly vulture dragging half the

universe. So we must live life—really live it!
But what does that mean? I’m bored out of my skull
so I join the gym to get in shape and now

I’m bored with my own body. What I want
in the deep of a New York night is a good glass
of blood-red wine and the noises the cars make

when passing down my street. People exist.
I forget this sometimes since I am quite occupied
searching for crows feet around my eyes

in every mirror of every room I lay foot in.
I refuse to take all the blame for changing
your ways and probably nine other people’s ways.

We bounce off one another and if I see white
today, maybe then I’ll wear white tomorrow.
Why write about things like this—the stuff

I am made up of. How am I doing? I walk
on eggshells when I talk, stammer
and cough up blood for lack of words.

Originally published in Drunk Monkeys 

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