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rules of a game

Jack Henry

i don’t live a christ centered life,
or, wash my feet before i enter a mosque, or, stay away from pork, or, caffeine or heroin

i don’t cross a street when black teenagers walk up the same sidewalk as me

i don’t avert my eyes when a homeless man reaches out to me with dirty
hands, or, when a recovering addict
asks for donations in front of a
grocery store

i don’t work for a chemical company that’s only interested in profits and
not the environment,
or, a oil company that insists current profits are fair,
or, a government that believes that torture and war are resolutions to
disagreement

i don’t vote because all the candidates are paper plates,
and the point escapes me when they say change and the only change is the player when the games remain the same

i don’t remember your name, or, keep your picture, or
hold onto the memory of false promises, lies, and truths designed
to placate my passion

i don’t listen to radio to hear the
news because i see the news on my
street every day, or watch the
television because i no longer care if britney flashes her cunt or
lindsey is a lesbian or if paris is
going to prison for ten days when the
rest of us get life

i don’t love her now that i realized she never loved me, or, fuck with
passion because i paid too much,
or, drink when i know the gutter will
be my bed

i don’t wander aimlessly any more than i normally do, or, run with
friends that see nothing but the moment, or, chase dreams because cost
has become too much

i don’t watch others kiss, or, breath in perfume of a beautiful woman, or,
look at the light coming from the eyes of a passing saint, or,
wistfully reflect on what could
have been

i don’t say no when offered a needle,
or a pipe, or a fat round joint, or a
hand job without commitment, or
a blowjob by a crackwhore

i don’t live life like the brochure offered, or live on a street where
kings and queens reside, or play
like my heart sometimes remembers

i don’t tune out the sounds of lovers fucking in the apartment above my, or
masturbate because the effort
is too much

i don’t call the police when a gunshot sounds and the body drops with an ominous thud, or when
a man in a black ski mask robs a
liquor store at gunpoint, or when a
mugger takes my meager funds

i don’t listen to gospel music, or rock and roll, or the blues,
especially the blues because that
music rings in my ears 24/7 already

i don’t wake up with anyone i know, or, want to know, that would just be the first step toward departure

i don’t say nice things when a preacher offers salvation, or a
bartender offers on the house, or
when my last friend needs comfort

i don’t know who i am, or who i will be, or, where i am from

i don’t walk in crowds, or go to the theatre, or, spit on the sidewalk,
or, piss on the back walls
of a sacred place

i don’t remember faces not since the fire took my own, not since time wore my bones down with insignificant precision

i don’t go to doctors, the last one’s opinion has become a prophesy

i don’t write poetry, or sonnets, or joyful tomes about birds and
butterflies, those words
are taken and mean less each time
repeated

i don’t do anything, especially now, especially when the devil has my nuts in a silk bag, especially when my hands commit the unspeakable,
especially when my eyes see nothing but this

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