Help me, I cry, in a foreign language.
Sauvez-moi! I am alone here. But the words make no sound.
I am em-bare-assed before Les Francais, walking their dogs
With their scoopers handy while I feel like
What needs to be scooped from their perfect lawn.
Ne pas marchez sur la pelouse!
No walking on the perfect grass. The green, the manicured,
The watered, moist, spongy freedom that returns
to its former shape immediately recovering from any unpredictable
or careless disturbance.
How could I become that, from down here in this dark hole-iness?
Saddled with pain, loss, incompetence, small as I am. Invisible.
I used to know about things. Anything, really. You
Could ask me. I would tell you. But now I cannot scream.
I speak in tongues and you are all so suave. Clipped and manicured
Yourselves, like your dogs, prepared for anything.
None of your dogs poop on the lawn.
The scoopers are all for show, as if you are more than human.
Or are you like me?
This silence will be my death. This blackness has overtaken me,
Sending me even further away into a sealed chamber of desperation,
the ultimate bad dream of isolation with no way to be heard.
Perhaps I can seduce you with the classics, to come to my aid
With halting awkward sanitary steps. May I take your hand?
May I take your arm? May I grasp your shoulder? Hang from your neck?
Will you lie low with me? Your comrade, your equal, your long lost relative
With the messy life? Oh, this unfortunate moment of shattered façade.
Wait! Do not withdraw! Am I the mess that you’ve been denying all these years?
Let me wallow for you. Let me disassemble for you.
Let me scream in horrific delight for you.
Let me surrender for you.
Let me surrender to you. I am yours now.
I am yours. I will always be yours. Come home with me.
You can even bring le chien gentil.
(produced in a 30 minute writing exercise for We Will Dance With Mountains)