Hanging out with girls makes me lonely. There’s so much of
telling each other that no one is fat and that he was a dick
for saying that and she was a bitch for not listening
to you better. Looking at pictures
makes me lonely, too: The time we were g-chatting
but I was also crying, looking at pictures of Eric dancing
with his friend’s mom at a wedding.
I’m probably not too shy to admit anything anymore.
Once I said Shyness is for children! and meant it.
Someone asked me at a poetry reading how I got so
comfortable talking in between poems and I said
that once I went to see some musicians perform for a birthday,
and even when they were playing beautiful Chopin,
they offered something extra, like a little physical
comedy routine built around the playing of the piece.
I said that since then I’ve wanted to give people
who come to see poetry a little something extra,
and that me, blabbering, is all I’ve ever had,
to give or to keep or to be with on my own.
There’s really very little
art in that. You’ll never hear me say it’s noble.
Or if it is noble, it’s only because it isn’t fun
to show everyone how little you have
and how little you are.
But no one has much,
and no one is much,
and everyone should know that we share that.