it never ends

dear jonathan -
i would really like to stop thinking about you.

how the fuck? what? how? i don't understand. 'splainify.

HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU BE DEAD GODDAMNIT JONATHAN YOU HAD ONE MOTHERFUCKING JOB!!

one job, buddy. ALL YOU HAD TO DO was stay alive. why was that too hard? maybe it wasn't entirely your fault but i DON'T CARE. goddamnit. turn your back for two goddamn minutes on these kids.

yesterday, friday, was the 3 month anniversary. at 4:27 on february 27th, phillip christopher brooks delivered some of the worst news of my life and kicked off the worst week and two days ever. it started to snow. it had been clear out, and beautiful, i was in the library reading and looking out the window and letting the sun drive me to distraction. that night, the night after, i sat outside and let it snow on me, needing the cold, needing to feel less deadened, not eating or sleeping, searching out comfort in the words of friends and loved ones that didn't come. disbelief has surrounded your death in a way i hadn't imagined, but even now it grips me. i would have given anything not to write the two poems i wrote about you. given anything. the chill i felt at developing your pictures, the morbid joy handing out the last bits of you i'd salvaged. I AM SO ANGRY AT YOU FOR DYING AND SHATTERING THE TACIT PEACE WE ALL ENJOYED.

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO EVERYONE? yes, it sucks for me that you are not here. i do not understand that you are not here. i'm like an alzheimer's patient. your name comes up in my brain everyday. but the PAIN this has caused SARITA AND MANA AND DON'T EVEN MENTION TIM BROWN? GODDAMNIT, JONATHAN, I COULD KILL YOU ALL OVER AGAIN, YOU BRAT. GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE AND LIVE LIKE THE REST OF US! AAAAAAHHH!!!

i am NOT writing the letter i wrote to david to you in two years. not going to happen. you know why? because i am DONE with this whole DYING SHIT. just STOP IT. everyone stay alive, motherfuckers! i DO NOT want to have to call my sister every five minutes just because i need reassurance she is still breathing. godfuckingdamnit.


dear universe -
you suck. you really suck. you suck so much. i hate you. i hate you lots and lots. if some of my very favorite people didn't live here, i'd be SO up on outta this bitch. fuck you, motherfucker. i'm not even going to list the people you've killed, except to say, jeanine and jessica? extra massive fucked up points for those two, motherfucker. godDAMN i hate you. eat shit and die. leave my friends alone.


and now the poem i haven't showed to anyone but my poetry teacher.


Task

The Toyota fish-tails a bit on snow-topped dirt,
around the U-shaped curve of the road.
He pulls in to the square patch
the family uses as a parking lot and sits.
As the engine cools, he studies the features
of the dash, the CDs, the seats,
the clumps of New Mexico mud on the floor mats.

He sits
observing the artifacts
of a life, unwilling:
to swing his feet to the crunchy snow
slam the door
and admit
the careless dead boy
will never drive this truck again.