Growing up in Public

Every time you feel like you get away, the distance shrinks, pulling you back to the glue trap, no wriggling free, just stuck.  The police knocked on my door again last night...again.  Months had passed, but there they were again asking for information I did not posssess, hoping to find him at the house, hiding out.  What kind of stupidity would I possess if I were to allow that?  If that were the case, then I suppose I would deserve what I would get:  cheap gin, rot, and disappointment.  I don't know where he is, nor do I care if he lives with some girlfriend somewhere at some address I've never been given.  Good for him.  Maybe she will urge him to sign divorce papers if I can determine where to serve them, if I can find a way to afford that.  I guess you might wonder how I could afford not to, but blood comes from no stone and it seems no one will crusade in to save the damsel from her distress.  The damsel has to figure this out on her own.

It makes me angry beyond measure.  The cops coming to my doorstep odd days, hours, holidays, scaring or waking my toddler son, while he likely sits stone-drunk in some apartment with some other woman who now buys the lies I used to swallow.  I don't care that she exists or even that he exists.  I care that I get left holding the paper bag filled with dogshit burst into flames outside my door.  The things I could have done different, but hindsight is just that, no magic potion to ward off past evils, just an observation that if delivered in time could have saved a lot of grief.  But it can't do no good now, just steer me clear of the next disaster...I hope.

Rock n' roll saved my life, but who loves the sun?  Not just about anyone.  How easy would it be to fall into crying, to shrivel up like a carved apple doll, a shrunken head not watertight?  He used to complain of that grating talk-sing-out of tune voice that calmed me, spoke to me, picked me up when I was down, out, lost, and thrown away.  I couldn't play even the most beautiful songs, no live versions of Venus and Firs, the viola piercing painful-lovely.  No croaking coruses of you can't help me all you girls with your sweet talk, you can all go take a fucking walk.  But if I'm pumping blood like a common state worker, would you adore the river?  It's poetry and it's not crap, nor is it pretenious, unintrepretable, high brow, eccletic, inaccesssible, unintelligible, or beatnick.  If he listened, oh if he listened, he might have heard the cry of my heart.  Oh my dear, oh my dear.

Too much is my life under a magnifying glass or more rightly a 20x objective on a microscope stage.  Is a 4x zoom enough to see the damages, the rents, the rips, the tears, the unceremonious hardened hurt and calcifications that crystalized there ready for structural determination?  I want to divorce myself from him, from this situation, from the bad luck, trick card deck I was dealt from.  But I can wait a thousand years for salvation to come.  I have to make my own way.  I can make my own.  I will.