Poem No. 4: Devil's Advocate

What if we don't 
swagger - what 
if we are born
to die?

Really (not in that Lana Del Rey way. 
Sorry). 

Just because
we know that this
isn't any more 
about survival than it
is about
being seen. 

I see
swagger.
That's you.

And me - 
who literally 
owns swag,
the second-hand
and gifted,
driven by pity
and necessity;
the pride and humility
of what has been 
achieved to receive it. 

The swagger of which 
you speak does nothing. 
And it is not interesting
or interested. It needs
to be coddled - 
rustling for an attention 
it does not own,
nor deserves
to. 

Swagger is your 
dead star,
sunken in the ocean;
deep, bleached, then beached;
an artifact,
a beautiful trophy. 

Stop pretending 
to understand beyond
your own experience,
like you really care.

(I know it is death
that both of us
care about.)

I know rage. La rabbia.
I am its subject.

When rage is 
a slap in your face, when
rage is your being
slap-happy, pissing
them off for it - 
then that swag
borrowed and given and taken, 
walks in.

Eyes quiver, 
the body shakes and
there is nothing
cool about it;
and they, they 
humble in their 
rage, seeing
that what they've 
done is as helpless
as their pain. 

And as for me,
I'm not sober.
Am I ever?
This unloading 
of it all, onto 
me, onto my 
self, well,
it belongs to 
you.