I Don’t Miss My Old Job
Poetry by Salem Sabrehagan, formerly Audrey Olivero
I Buy a Gun Safe From a Twitch Ad Aimed at Combat Vets; We Can Put Sex Toys in There if You Want, For Fun, If You Sell the Gun
“Gun to your head — gay boyfriend or girl with glasses and bangs?”
“Gun to my head?”
“Gun to your head,” he said,
held his fingers to my temple, released the safety,
breathed
“p y o o”
In this universe, guns solve problems
and we pass every mental health check (none)
I don’t think about him, alone,
in a crowded room,
or underneath a mob wife
our big fucking mouths
never get us in trouble
“Insurance or an apartment with two bathrooms?
debt relief or 3 years guaranteed happiness?
High-speed rail or walkable city?
Foster kids?
Gun to your —”
gun to my head
I am quick onthedraw,
press two fingers to his forehead,
tap once
“I forget the question,”
p y o o
Gethsemane, Redux, Redux II
It’s 30 degrees and the reality of my life is worth
running away
to see if I could keep living if I was someone else
but here I am (in fucking Boston)
arguing with a loved one on the phone
picking a fight, opening a wound, digging in, hoping to find
the truth the violent way.
It’s true: Wherever you go, there you etc.
On cobblestone streets, coffee shops, bookstores
I try on a new life, aspirationally, of disposable income
but my heart’s not in it
I am thinking, once again, about all the kinds of love
like a fucking moron
I am thinking about the X-Files, late at night in someone else’s apartment
the episode is about science and religion and human faith
but all I can see is
Mulder, kneeling at Scully’s bedside
weeping into her still hand
I’m all cynicism & rough posture & tough walking & Weeknd, bitter bring your love, baby
I could bring my shame
but I want what they have, my eyes burn with it
Between the bad CGI, the space cancer,
Mulder’s sister, the smoking man, the FBI
Some things aren’t romance — they’re a love story,
I mean, sure, aliens, vampires, conspiracies,
the gentle way a hands falls to a waist, coming back,
again & again & again,
all the ways two people find to say the words that aren’t the words
because they’re scared,
because the truth is
Colin Farrell’s Eyebrows
Man, I get that you don’t care
about 80% of what I say
but I don’t exist to be interesting to you
and you’re not
putting on
muchofashow yourself
I feel sure about this,
because Colin Farrell would agree with me
and there is no man
whose eyebrows I’d like to delicately smooth over more —
which takes a mutual trust
I love big eyebrows and their honesty
I love New York when it’s empty
I love walking in comfortable silence
with someone I know well
I love In Bruges
these are boring things no one cares about
but I’ve been trying to write a poem about being happy
and if you can’t care about what you get for free
in this economy
the world’s going to eat you alive
I don’t know what to say when you say “I don’t care,”
Who asked? Are they in the room?
Are they going to be with you
when things collapse
and it’s as boring as we both know it’s going to be,
has always been?