autobiography

I think when I was born
all that I wanted
was the sound of a viola
with its two cello strings
and two violin strings,
not knowing that it was the hardest instrument to play
because of the finger and hand tension on the left hand.

I had one later, but it got smashed in the mail
and there was this matter of its horrifying picture
ending up in my mailbox with issues of mail insurance,
the dark cherry wood split
and all these weird overtures
in the correspondences between myself and the company.

Looking back
it beat all those bar fights
and then the day when my whole life became one.
I'm putting these down
because nobody will give a damn to write about my life,
at most maybe the Internet will say one day
"minor poet."

I used to have a highly functioning vocabulary
where I could use words like "crepuscular"
as points of humor
but I ceased that
after discourse became a series of comebacks and stabbings,
I had to save the good ones
for drawing a pen knife out of my pocket
when three men came out of the Zebra Room with a baseball bat,
my cousin running off into the night
and leaving me there with about two inches of nothing.

Viola strings
are a sparse and expensive commodity
and I don't mean the ones that are woven in steel
that last a long time like some people often do,
they are too common.

Those notes and my sore left hand
on fretless ebony
one time I made my instrument lament
because I was probably living
in some filthy Los Angelean debauchery
with the fly girls and boys
all on their corporate prescribed speed and anti depressants
when I was all looked down upon
because I refused,
and just would hang out on the warm patio
in these iron chairs made to look like rose vines
looking at the mint and tomato plants.

But even this was a long time ago.
I gave my violin away, it was too easy to make noise
and well like I said that viola got smashed in the mail
so all I did as a person
was look at the designs and patterns of smoke
from too many cigarettes
and wonder about wine