My sad friend Foyil
is living under pontiac skies,
working at a 7-11
within walking distance,
refusing to write poetry
over some backwards ass
notion of oppressive opportune timing
and depressive self doubt,
with a splash of sober situational
rewind-and-play fear.
I tried to make him laugh,
while he talked in generalities
about life and failed art,
focusing more on response
than the reason
to make art in the first, ethereal place:
to evolve your own soul.
Like me,
he inherited his 'why me?' attitude
toward the world
from his parents,
who barely scraped by
and had enough dimes
to give him a guitar,
but certainly didn't have the tools
to make a confident, intelligent man.
Too scared shitless to try,
he blames Orlando, Florida,
and scores of wayward women,
wondering why he attracts crazy,
and the whole time he is telling me this
I am thinking 'brother, I've been there."
Mostly, you have to be open
to anything, to change,
for once you are open
you will surely laugh
at a phone conversation
between two friends
who haven't talked in a long while
opening with the line
"a wolverine ripped my dick off!"