Poetry: Selections from John Tustin

MELT

 

I cannot melt my troubles in the rain

As if they’re shit left in the grass

By the neighbor’s goddamn dog

 

But I can watch the rain from my porch –

Its vertical sheets cascading before my eyes;

Its puddles forming in the pockmarks in the street.

 

I cannot melt my troubles in the rain

But I can see them across the street right now,

Trembling and exposed in their raincoats and fedoras,

 

Waiting for the rain to cease

So they can once again stroll across fresh beams of sun,

Knock on my door and put their bony cold fingers

 

Upon my shoulders once again.

MONDAY MORNING

 

The sun came into the room dusty

because the slats of the blinds were coated in dust.

You could see the particles floating in the light

that beamed in little narrow shafts onto the bed

where I was waking up.

Me –

with too much hair, nose and belly

but not enough of almost anything else.

I’ll let you guess what the room looked like.

To people who are kind-minded – it looked worse than you think

and to the rest of you I must say it didn’t look as bad as you probably believe.

I turned over and groaned. 

I closed my eyes again.

I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.

I tried but couldn’t sleep anymore so I got out of bed and made the coffee.

I drank the coffee.

It didn’t taste bad or good

and the sun came in and cast a pall of yellow

over another Monday morning covered in dust.

The morning became afternoon

and when the night arrived I got back into bed,

turning over and groaning,

knowing in a few hours there would be new dusty little narrow

shafts of light

and the coffee wouldn’t taste bad or good. 

NUDES

 

I closed my eyes

and tried to paint some nudes

of a couple of lady acquaintances 

I hadn’t seen in a while

on the walls of my mind,

never seeing them nude

so not being able to do it from memory

 

and it turns out

they all looked better with their clothes on

after all,

 

so I rinsed out the paintbrush

that lingers in my mind

and began to wonder

about something else for a while.

OPEN WOUND

 

That little squiggle of disappointment

when you wipe

and there is no shit on the paper

 

or no gunk in the dental floss;

no earwax on the end of the cotton

swab;

 

as if it’s uninteresting

or a waste of time

when we check something

that, in the moment,

didn’t need our attention.

 

No wonder we fiddle with our lives

the way the finger can’t help

poking into the open wound

to make sure everything still hurts.

 

STUCK

 

Never trust anyone. 

Never give anyone your heart. 

Empty your heart of all but the most basic caring.

Do not listen to the voice that tells you

that love is possible.

No, listen to static instead.

Love everyone, but love no one

in such a way that they can use your love

to control you, usurp you or demolish you.

Feel nothing unless you are using 

your hands to do so.

Shave your head. Quit all clubs you have joined.

Withdraw from the world

but look like you belong. 

Live as far from others as you can:

in body, in mind.

 

The letter she wrote to you – it was lies.

The pictures she took for you – everyone has seen them.

The love she claims to have delivered –

check the canceled stamps and see

how many times that letter has traveled around the world and back

before reaching you.

Free your mind of yearning. Do not strive.

When you wish for something,

that is when you cannot move forward.

You will remain in neutral. Glued into place.

Stuck.

 

Do not love her like that.

Do not love anyone like that.

Wish them well, help them

to carry their load

but do not own their burdens.

Do not believe the light you see in anyone

is pure or good or even a light at all.

Fire warms and fire burns. 

Fire tricks you.

Beware the ones who cover their bodies

in scars of their own volition, 

who bare their bodies in a crowded room.

Their hearts are secrets, lies, discreet betrayal;

a hushed rebellion against your love.

Think about your own heart:

look into the darkness of it. 

Look inside and know that most of us

inhabit a similar sinisterness of soul.

 

Get drunk. Listen to songs of death and longing

until it’s all pissed out

or you are ready to pass out.

Be neither kind nor wicked in your mind.

Be practical. 

Take off all of your clothes and sleep

beneath the ceiling fan,

feel it spin above 

with the shades shut so tight

and the sheet shut so tight around you.

 

Alone.

Be alone.

Stop wanting it because it is not real.

Open the book of your heart and tear out

the pages that so earnestly promise you

that being loved completely is possible

and that there is someone out there

who will be true to you.

No one,

no one

is your missing piece. No one.

No, we are all broken

and our cracks are mostly irreparable.

Be your broken self, 

heal where you can,

do it alone

in the comfort of the dark.

 

Now go to sleep, drunk and

wiser.

Hold yourself tightly

because you are all that you have,

as little as that is.

You and only you,

like it or don’t like it.

That is reality.

I lie to you all the time

but this is too important.

It’s the truth.

I promise.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection, Written Under Duress, from Cajun Mutt Press is now available.