Gold Mine

Write something for release. Something to get all the feelings out. Some good angry metaphors and critical analogies. To get you thinking, to stop me. It’s ten after six and the only sensory details I have through the window are an odd rooster crowing at an imaginary sun, a goat kid calling the dark for mom, and bush crickets that go silent the moment I write their name. There’s the big empty trucks driving tired men to work, where their trucks will sit emptier still in a parking lot. They’ll work six months then lay out six, that’s when someone comes and takes the truck. They peer into blacked out windows in the houses they pass with such fierce jealousy and disdain for sleeping bodies. Still not angry enough for how stuck I feel.

Trapped. Used. Forgotten. Lonely. There have to be better words than these. Pinioned. Whorred. Dumped. And honest. Keep the melodrama to yourself, Jeremy, please. My heart is what I named my deepest, most internal, least malleable and consistent thoughts. Right now my heart cries want, want, want. To work my farm from dawn to dusk. To be my very own son-of-a-bitch boss. To finish this book burning in my head. So I can start on the one I haven’t dreamed of yet. I want to be Jeremy, capital Me, I want the last of Mr. Homesleys. There is a gold mine on this land left buried.

I have the shovel.
But not the time.

A friend to talk to over coffee.

What are the fears keeping me up?
Insuring my morning arrives with tears.

Sadness. A small precise weight laid heavily on a heart.
Clenched like a mad fist. I am growing crazy.
Lunacy. A friend to talk to over coffee.

Who convinced me as a child I had a bleeding heart?
It’s not like I wrote this man mad and depressed. Beaten. Beating.
Bleeding me and all close of our furious and unpredictable brokenness.

I want more than all things to help it along.

Work like a well paid servant for my external biological community.
Family. And not just scattered weekends and weak ends, but the kingdom.
The kingdom of twisted roots tainting everything I remember.

That thought. Making me stay up late and wake up early.
Keeping me frail and ceaselessly surly, perched on the verge of tears.
Betrayal. The betrayal brought to me by a friend I once called brother.
And as well as that discourteous bloody reaction,
there is the betrayal I intend to enact on others.