the point when the absurd cannot become a poem

the point when the absurd cannot become a poem
by chris cottrell
my mother told me once
that she was considering
prostitution. a friend
in the sovereignty movement—
a proud hawaiian woman
with a batu habit—could get
her the job and give her
a pager.
under the table i had two jobs
washing dishes, one job building
tattoo needles, was listed
as her dependent, couldn’t
get her to sign financial
aid forms, payed half
the rent and connected
her drug-dealing boyfriend
to potheads at the restaurant.
my monthly wages were less than
her wefare check
i slept on a mat in the living room
where, occasionally, centipedes
would climb across my balls.
she seemed desperate, her eyes
red-rimmed and glistening.
she told me she didn’t know
what else to do, there was
no way to make ends meet
and she already hocked
my sister’s guitar. maybe
i could help out.
i had come home with
bacon, eggs and a couple
of used records. if i could
listen to the clash and eat
breakfast, i had
money to burn.
the expression on her face
was the one where she rolled
her upper lip the way kids do
when they pretend
to lose their teeth.
it was a sign she had been
drinking. around her eyes,
the muscles stretched,
pulling them wide and her
nostrils flared. it was the same
look she used when she was about
to punish me for something.
how hard, i thought, to
have the luxury to throw
away handouts and still expect
her boy to hand over enough
to buy the next round.
go for it, is what i said.
it will be a learning experience.
times like this do not
translate well into poetry
they are figurative enough.
these are the moments
that make people
talk about the weather
the wind in the palms.
the steady break of waves.
the sky.