Thursday, May 29, 2014

The Badge (or what happened when I took a meditation class)



When anger showed up
like the postman with my package;
when anger came up like a Buick that sank in the lake in ‘78

I saw what it used to be plus the sludge and the moment it stopped humming along.

When anger showed up
like the reject I didn’t invite to my party;

when anger rose up
like a heavy gold badge come up through my chest, breaking my bones like a pit bull through a rickety fence,

I wanted to wear the bloody badge outside my t-shirt (on the left-hand side) and ask:  Have I got authority now, motherfucker? 

Or did I simply take my foot off the toy in the tub?

What am I supposed to do with this Buick?  Park it beside the house? 

I want to know who remembered to look for the Buick.  
Someone who never forgot.  Someone who daydreamed when they drove. 
The one, I bet, I think…the one who took her coffee sweet and light.  

Too bad I took what I could as the opposite of a promise,
shoving what I could in my purse like swiping yeast rolls at a steakhouse.
I thought I'd need them later.

Too bad I can’t treat the badge like an ice cube in my mouth, 
that between my teeth, with my own heat and time, I might melt it.  

Hello, my name is…oh, that’s just my gold badge.   

I’ve been wearing my badge to very important functions.
I’ve been wearing my badge to bed. 

I changed my mind and invited all the rejects to my party.  
The badge is a conversation starter or else I stuff a pizza puff in my moth, my mouth, I mean.  

When anger surfaces, I don’t want to say I'm too busy to be angry, too distracted to wonder why the Buick went down.  I don’t want to say I'm too happy to be mad or too good to work the crane.  

When anger surfaces, I don’t want to say I can't use it, because if there's some shit, and you offer me a shovel, I won’t turn you down.  If anger's my badge, I'm bound to wear it and get to the bottom of this.  



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