Hues du dann eppes ze soen? the oldest man asks me.
Three crop around a table; sipping cans of the cheapest beer
money can buy and pluming French cigarette smoke out our mouths
The youngster, who couldn’t grow a beard,
who knew nothing,
who couldn’t write for shit – that’s me
The middle man, who always shaved to the grain,
who looked older than he was,
who never got a word
The oldest, who looked like life ran past him,
who talked big and ran his mouth,
who I’m not sure actually knew anything
We sat out in the sun and talked writing,
We rotted our brains under UV and drowned survivors in bleach cocktails,
We talked over the Alzette’s breath.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? the oldest man repeats.
His leather skin tanned by years of work; chemical blends
on his calloused hands, worn arms, bare chest, and torn pants.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he repeats, and I don’t know the answer.
He says,
You write about death because you don’t know it
You write about death because you never lived it
You write about death because you never saw it
You write about love because you never had your heart broken
You write about love because you never felt someone’s touch
You write about love because your parents hate each other
A gulp of piss-golden, sun-warmed liquid and
foam runs past his mouth onto his
oil-glistening hairy chest
You have to have lived to tell
You have to have loved to write
You have to have died to muse
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he asks yet again and
I don’t know – of course I have something to tell, you cunt,
I lived because sounds don’t make sense anymore
I loved because I have words I can’t speak
and I died because I forgot to dream
The old man asks again
Hues du dann eppes ze soen?
You gave up on writing because you couldn’t take the pressure,
You settled for a hermit’s life on a paradise at the
Alzette’s toes; to drink, to smoke, to sculpt.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he asks one last time.
No, old man, I write to tell
There’s a crack in my window. I see the chipped glass
when I lay naked in bed, when the nights are long with
the usual symptoms of not feeling well.
At the office I say, Yes Dr. It’s the same; stomach cramps,
vertigo, throwing up and shitting more than I
eat.
She’ll tell me, Well, are you still drinking?
and I’ll say, Well, I haven’t been quitting.
She’ll give me vitamins and pills and balms and she’ll
say, Lay off the smoking too, before you’re gone.
I’ll think, tomorrow will be better, today’s just a bad day
in a worse month, during the worst year and on the way
back, I’ll pick up the same cigarettes and a six-pack and
I’ll watch the crack in my window.
The cigarettes will taste awful, and the beer hollow, I’ll
feel like shit, at the end of my wit and I’ll say this time,
that’s it, for real – I’ll quit.
The other day, a dung fly came in,
through the small crack in the glass of the window.
Likely attracted by the stink of bile and spilled pinot.
The dumb fly couldn’t get back out the crack and it
buzzed loud, smacked the window like a maniac.
More came and more didn’t leave. When I called the
doctor to tell her the vitamins and pills didn’t fill
the crack, a pigeon crashed into the window and turned
the slit narrow, into an entire bird-sized hole.
I’ll call the office again tomorrow,
and fix the hole while I’m at it,
tomorrow.