Give me that paper
My head's on fire
Maybe if I can spread the fire to the paper
I can take away some of the heat
Give me that paper quickly
I have to stop the bleeding
Use it as a bandage
And when the blood dries
The imprint will tell the story of the wound
In impressions clear and bold
Or in splotches and stains
Now don't get me wrong
If I bled all the time I'd be dead
It would be easy to mistake
A pile of bloody bandages
For a history of protracted agony
But just like the proverbial squeaky wheel
Only negative traces can be seen
When I'm not bleeding
I'm too busy being healthy to leave a record
So only half the story ever gets told
I'll assume you know
I don't bitch and moan for the fun of it
And I'm not really a miserable wretch
The poets in the audience understand this from experience
And know that sometimes gatherings like this
Can be likened to a bunch of war veterans
Showing each other battle scars
And retelling of those moments
Where brushes with pain and death
Took life to the edge
And gave it fresh meaning
By way of contrast.
GS, 11/29/90