AUDIO
When Harold and his purple crayon fall off
the mountain Harold made, so he could see
his bedroom window, Jack asks if he’s crying. I was on a date last night,
talking about myself, which even I thought
made me sound gay, when Michelle, who doesn’t read poetry, said
she thought poems could mean a lot, without saying a lot. Half the time,
I’m sick of poetry or sick
of making a distinction between myself and poems clear to people
who know nothing about either, and thus made to consider
how much time I spend
getting ready in the morning vs. making conversation
with my nephews on the phone, and why
poetry, at least, makes sense to me,
if only as an alternative, even though it’s not
a competition, and never was. But she was right,
and perhaps put into words something I didn’t want to forget
about not hating or killing myself. The book is of no use,
of course: Harold’s looking up and keeps his “wits
about him,” which means about as much to me
as it does to Jack, since keeping either wits or a bag over your head
doesn’t change the fact that what he’s looking at’s the distance
between himself and reality. And Jack and I and Harold know it
isn’t much to look at. Later, the Harold we can all agree on
draws the moon because, if nothing else,
he knows where it’s supposed to be this time of night
from where he’s been since
the first page. At which point, I assume, the Harold Jack and I know
wants to blow purple bubbles in the air with words like “what”
and “the” and “hell?” inside, since kids are always saying things
they don’t understand, they say. At least, that’s what I heard
myself say to Jack’s mom during parent/teacher conferences,
before I thought about it and half the things that I attempt
to mean in front of people. I mean it
did the trick, as far as moving things along, but so did finding Waldo in Gabon
this morning. And what good’s finding out
where he is all the time? But here I am,
waiting for the minute and a half it seems like it would take
to answer the real question, in defense of insecurity, instead
of asking Jack what he would do, which given the politics of story time
and evidence at hand’s a bit like showing off
a picture-book of Superman, flying around the world, while breaking it in
half and asking all the boys what they would do, until it wasn’t even
a question. “Every moment of your life
determines who you are,” my father said, while we stood
outside the nursery, Bryce, already unconvinced
about his place in this world, wanted more than anything
to tell us something in. “I don’t know how to relax, either,” I replied. Awhile back,
in front of mostly priests and homosexuals I sing in church on Sundays with,
I told the story
about Alex and Jack pissing on the bathroom floor, not because
either of them thought that I would think to take it personally,
but because Jack doesn’t have a lot of friends, and pissing
anywhere besides the toilet was, I’m sure, such a relief for him and Alex,
in the sense that neither had considered
how much they have in common, when I stopped
raising my voice to ask what they thought they were doing
or had done, stopped speaking in code for “I don’t know
what I have done,” and didn’t call it right or wrong,
but said to clean it up, which I was comfortable doing
and calling, at least, one in a series of right things to do,
as well as a devotion. No one raised their hand or anything, though
many bowed their heads in prayer, but Sean
said he remembered being made a fool of by his father for playing with his watch, out
in the parking lot, and how so many opportunities in life become a wound. And I agreed.
Like Harold though, I think one thing and do another
all the time. Like Jack, too, I suppose. “To keep your wits about you
means to stay composed,” I say, erasing all confusion from their faces
to make room for another word no one’s about to understand. “Which means,”
I say, “to look like you’re okay, even if you want to cry.” Which Jack “wouldn’t
if it were [him]” up there, coloring what hurts
the shape of something purple that keeps changing
into a Pteranodon or cliff, for the sake of making something out of what
you start to hope is nothing, till you think about what that means
or until that cliff looks more real than you thought
to think about, which may not matter much to Harold, because he’s a cartoon,
but should to me and Jack and Alex. I doubt if there’s enough
to go on here, but I like to be prepared,
since people tend to ask about my day, once they find out what I do. Either way,
the story isn’t over. Michelle asked me to write a poem,
I suppose she wants to read, about last night, at the same time
that my father called to ask how things were going. “Good
as it can get,” I said, which doesn’t sound that great. But what was I supposed to say?
The story people think they’re getting is about a three or four-year-old
not making sense, but being none the wiser. But the story that they get
is proof that I take things too seriously. A lot
of those same people misquote famous lines from movies to make sense
of their surroundings, which like passing the time,
it seems, never gets old. And maybe if they didn’t,
I’d treat some people like children
and others like adults. But timing is still everything in my book,
no matter what you say. And so I said
I didn’t want to spend the night or go running
in the morning before work, because Michelle had said that
she was “the kind of person” who says and does what she wants,
which turned out to be true, because she said some things that hurt my feelings
and went home. So I did, too. And kept thinking, “That isn’t me!”
about the run on the drive home. But where
did I come up with that? An anti-smoking ad for teens, I bet. I close the book
so that, for all we know, Harold’s safe,
but homeless. Jack and Alex ask
to play with blocks and show me which one I am, trapped inside
the jail. And I can’t help but wonder
if being trapped inside the jail is what Jack’s mom meant
about feeling “taken
advantage of,” by him. Like her, I hope I make it out
alive, but then again,
it’s just pretend. You can draw the world inside a box
just to feel like you’re outside of it. However, while I’m not
one to put too fine a point on things
I have to say, nobody deserves to make that world feel like it’s on top of itself,
just for being a good listener. And somewhere in-between those two
afterthoughts is what I should have done
about watching Michelle drive down a poorly-labeled dead end street,
without saying a word. Dr. Phil says if you want to change your life, you have
to be willing to give up the things that you get out
of staying who you are. “He’s a teacher and a poet,” said Michelle
to describe me to her friends, “but really
he’s a poet.” Which maybe lets me off the hook,
though I know when I’m wrong. Which may turn out to be one of the few things I can say
about myself and what I’m looking for, even though a lot is expected of me. Everyday,
of course, I ask myself if that part’s true or merely something I would say,
when if I really cared , I’m sure, I’d ask
the last person whose lunch I couldn’t find. Even the straightest line
proves difficult to follow, in the end. If I remember,
there was even some debate about the difference
between it and a labyrinth and a maze. Good question, I think (I wish
I could say “to myself”), standing in this closet full of coats, before
the people who can fit inside them come, trying to consider
what more I need to know, when you think about it, and all the help they’ll need,
even just to ask for help, even just to cry.
