In the End…
I decided I’d follow in Neon Boy’s footsteps tonight. I’ve wanted to put some of my poetry and that of others on here for a while. I actually thought about asking our readers to submit poetry for a “contest” of sorts, but I’m not sure just yet. It’s hard enough to get people to comment. (Maybe we’re just boring).
Whatever the reason, I get tired of making fun of people, and I hate being pigeonholed. (In case you never noticed, Jones Town is the physical manifestation of ADD. I often wonder what the people who read us regularly, if there is such a thing, expect when they come here. “Let’s see, Wednesday they wrote about ADD and then on Thursday they did a parody where Al Sharpton was a chicken leg and Sean Hannity was a cracker box, and then on Friday they had a story written a’ la Dr. Seuss. What the fuck?” See? You can’t fake that shit).
Moving along. I didn’t actually write this poem. An 18 year old I met about ten years ago did. He was one of my clients, and extraordinarily bright. He gave me a run for my money on many an occasion. Unfortunately, he was also a sociopath. The reason we met was because he hit his mom with a baseball bat after she told him to stop tormenting their dog. (He’d already killed 2 other pets when he was younger. BIG TIME WARNING SIGN!)
He wrote it for me after I asked him why he did what he did during one of our sessions. When he came back the following week, the first thing he did was hand it to me. When I asked what it was he said, “Why.” I’ve debated whether or not I should post it because I have no way to give him credit. Obviously I can’t use his name.
I think it’s very good, especially when you consider he was only 18, and it deserves to be read. Who knows maybe he can help someone else.
Like most of my former clients I have no idea what happened to him. (Once a kid leaves your program it’s illegal to maintain contact with them. If I saw a former client in the Grocery store I wasn’t “allowed” to say hello unless they spoke to me first. The galling thing is after they left is often the time they needed us the most. I miss the kids but I sure don’t miss all that bullshit). I hope he’s well.
(I recognize poetry is not the “in” thing, but I made up my mind when I started this blog we were going to do what we wanted. Sorry).
(here in this house, my childhood, Spent)
lying here i am unsure
i feel nothing but
i lose form and
above my bed
as the floor creaks not goodbye but
i cry out,
i wait for them
a scream from the bottom of the stairs
something to help me return
my tears fall harmlessly to the floor of
T R T C
H O H E
I O I L
S M S L
from which I cannot escape
silence creeps under the door
like a stranger
it embraces the entire foundation
they will not come
they will not answer
they are teaching me
and i will learn
i will learn to live here, in this house
to build myself within these
the master student
i will be impenetrable
my eyes like crystal balls
i will learn to read minds
and to avoid the soft places
in the floors
and one day i will become the teacher
inviting those i love
into this house
and they will come
that its rooms are filled with
~ by fairlane on June 10, 2007.