Saturday Night Blues

My rage smells like nostalgia
I am
a troubled Negro youth
in his forties
neglecting self-repair
and I am recoiling
the anger in my old man days
Is/As/Was
the anger of my youth: nobody cares and nobody believes me when I say something is hurting me
I left the fan on all day
hoping the white noise would carry me into sleep
but what would "black noise" even be?
In accordance with natural law, in an expanding and collapsing universe
I imagine the sound
of an infinite amount of little tears
so loud it's silent
a certain violence
I am accustomed to
every time my boss talks to me
be it praise or scorn
I notice I stop breathing
and later learn that animals who are heavily preyed upon will often stop their own breath
in an attempt
to hear their surroundings better
of course that sounds very likely
but also just can't be true
because too often in silence
I can't locate my heart beating
take it for granted
liken it to the fact
that I don't need to see my feet to know that they are there
round about and round about
who wants a life anyway?
He calls from rehab
on Tuesdays and Saturdays
he doesn't need to see me
to know that I am there
I am often in fear of what metaphor I am becoming to people
without my permission
"The most high-risk
homosexual behavior
I engage in
is
simply existing"