i rise each morning, groggy, hair disheveled, squinting and proceed to make myself acceptable. hair, face, body - it may not be made-up or perfect but there is effort, if only a bandana or baseball cap. i eat, sometimes nutritious, sugary, nicotine and caffeine, air, but it’s there, that step, then walk out the door to face the day. (ii) it is dark. all about me i hear voices muted. no one is listening. i open my mouth to scream and out rushes silence. i cry harder and for my effort am ignored. it is so dark. (iii) once upon a time there was a belief that "it" would all work out. the prince would whisk the heroine away on a white steed and live happily ever after. but who places all hopes of finding life forever happy on a dick? the pink and lace is gone, replaced by power-suits and rallies. at least externally; because we all know each little girl dreams up a prince. (iv) it stings. it hurts. i think i have been torn in two by a machete amateurishly handled. no one can know. (v) a friend, boyfriend, brother, father, uncle, priest, teacher, cousin, doctor, politician, neighbor, stranger, the person who should have been trusted for being a human being. (vi) one in four or two in five. all stats and numbers, cold hard facts. no faces, no bodies, no voices no names. lined in charts and columns and books with the same story: pain. but what of the other story, the one no one will tell? what is the secret, the quest of every face, every body, every voice every name? the same story, same quest: happiness.

Dress shoes, do not fit.
Three pairs of jeans, do not fit .
He and his behind the ear whispers, do not fit.
Still, he made a place there

for himself.


Brevityquest 2006

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