#752

I'm too tired, too exhausted by
the constant attempt to present
myself subtly, with some sort of restraint,
and now I find myself,
hair matted and eyes ablaze
walking the sidewalkless streets of North Hollywood--

and I declare, in all sincerity,
that I am done--that I will proclaim
from this abandoned parking lot
with weeds growing from cracks
in the pavement, waiting to be pulled
to unzip the crusty face of the Valley--

I've pinned two cloth swatches to my shirt--
one that says
it doesn't matter what you think,
but what you do--
and one that says
it doesn't matter what you do,
but what you feel--
and then take off my shirt completely
and stand there,
knowing things aren't that easy,
that you've got to carry it around
like a goddamn barbell over your shoulders

and I proclaim it from this lot,
under a square of sunlight
through a cloud, here, in the lot
across from the Chevron, on Victory, north
of the carnicería, accepting that

I've now got to move forward,
with these lead bones, but a root
shaken loose from the pavement.