Lisa Rogal
MEEZ
That me is having a hard day.
That me has been brainwashed.
That me is beating the other me into submission.
That me is tearing child me away from mother me. I do this again and again as if I don’t know what a
child is. As if I don’t have human feeling.
That me has lost my human feeling. Now I have to find it outside of me — be told by other meez how to
be.
That me is disappeared into a strange invisible prison where other meez wander aimlessly as the world
continues elsewhere.
That me wants to fuck that other me.
That me has been depressed for years and I can’t find a way out.
That me gives myself a dollar. The me on the train covered in my own fluid stinking and rotting. None of
the other meez will approach me.
That me intimidates me until I cave. I give myself up. I lay on the ground. I pull a gun on me. I shoot me
in the back three times for good measure.
That me believes all the meez who suffer have done something to deserve it.
That me doesn’t believe in karma but that me does.
That me is walking my dog when another me approaches. I talk to the dog but not to me.
That me pours the coffee. That me drinks it.
That me wants to kill the meez at school who don’t look or act like me.
That me tries to rescue another me from a burning building but I die inside.
That me is a politician. That me a poet.
That me has come to see all other meez as less than human.
Well me, I tried my best, I tell myself as I dive off the cliff to uncertainty.
That me believes I’m okay as long as I have enough money.
That me teaches music, yoga, and chemistry.
That me hates money just wants to throw it away.
That me will need another job to survive.
That me is a barista and gives me a free coffee because the temperature is below freezing my clothes
tattered my skin dirty I’m a large person I’m twitchy the other meez don’t look at me but once I
was a child me and mother me saw the beauty in me somehow I became a me that scares
other meez so we avoid me. The me that hands me the coffee smiles tightly which means I want
me to leave now that I’ve been given this charity.
Another me cries in a parking lot. In a movie theater. At church. At school. In the bathroom at midnight
so I don’t hear myself.
A me gives birth to baby me and the sudden love terrifies. A me outside of me, looking at me with open
certainty as though I can protect myself from all life’s injury.
That me was killed by me when I tried to run from my authority. Why did I run I ask myself over and
over. Why not just do as I’m told. Bitch me that doesn’t know my place. I deserved it I think,
letting the memory of my head snapping back from the bullet fade somewhere deep inside me
so I don’t have to interrogate it.
Another me has convinced many meez they need me to give them a religious awakening. This makes me
feel important and allows me to take my own money.
A me falls in love with me and wants to be with me only.
A lonely me wonders what the point of me is.
Some meez seem determined to destroy the universe while other meez destroy myselves.
Some meez have no mercy.
Some meez can’t get out of bed because when we go out we have no shield, feel the feelings of all other
meez walking about as if they are our own.
A few meez make lots of money from other meez suffering.
That me believes I have to hoard to survive the empty center of me.
That me is old and walks very slowly over the frozen ground. Another me can’t even go out in this snow
with my crutches.
That me stands outside my burning house confused, wearing only my underwear, flames licking behind
me as other meez look on.
Another me cracked my hip and died in the hospital surrounded only by meez I didn’t know. I tend
to the body of dead me, cleaning and making it presentable to a crowd of meez who come to cry
and kiss my dead hands.
That me is knitting in the corner of the bookstore, silently judging all the meez who enter.
Many meez invent and make things. Sometimes I make other meez pay and pay even for life’s
necessities. Other times I give them away for free. Only I get to decide which.
That me longs for community, but doesn’t have the time, energy, clear communication, or conflict
resolution skills necessary to sustain it.
That me is bullying another me on the playground. I scrape my chin on the ground, try not to cry, stand
up and walk away silently but the other me chases me and pushes me again and again until I’m
crying on the ground — dirt and blood in my mouth. The me standing over me is thrilled and
terrified — can’t stop. Why do all my meez collide and not recognize myself?
SECRET
The undersides of my feet are dry. I’ve tried everything — coconut oil socks — something’s drying — out from inside — I walk — to the park and everyone is — there. I weave — in and out — of bodies. Still — pink trees! Pink trees sometimes — I think we live — in a paradise — secretly present in everyday life — dark secret beneath. Kids play on — mound of dirt. Everything smells like earth — it’s spring and everyone — is dying news says — or going to — soon the world is suffering — the sun is out — my shoes are off — my feet are warm — I watch the birds dip — a swarm
Lisa Rogal is a poet and educator living in Brooklyn, NY. She is the author of la belle indifference (Cuneiform Press), Feed Me Weird Things (Ugly Duckling Presse), Morning Ritual (United Artists Books), and The New Realities (Third Floor Apartment Press). Her writing has recently appeared in Copenhagen and Hurricane Review. She is co-editor of Long News Poetry & Poetics.