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 wakes in bed unable to make my body perform its duties.
That me is disappeared into a strange invisible prison where other meez wander aimlessly as the world continues elsewhere.
That me longs for another me — wants to press close my warm body — but will it happen?
That me spills a glass of wine on my white shirt and swears — shit — it’s happened again.
That me has been depressed for years and can’t find a way out. I call me on the phone to cry each night — holding my breath
until I pick up.
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.
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 pours the coffee. That me drinks it.
That me is walking my dog when another me approaches. I talk to the dog but not to 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.
That me sees the aura of mist as the storm approaches.
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 think of everything before it can happen.
That me buries gold bars in the yard in case of economic disaster.
That me wears dead meez clothing to feel closer.
That me hates money — just wants to throw it away. That me collects bottles for cash.
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 child me and mother me saw the beauty in me
somehow I became a me that scares 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 the bathroom at midnight so I won’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. Stupid bitch me. I deserved it, I think, letting the memory of my head hitting the concrete 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. I put my hands on our heads until we shake with humility.
A me falls in love with me and wants to be with me only but I run from my ferocious commitment.
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 have misophonia, dyslexia, aphasia, insomnia, and other such syndromes.
Some meez can’t get out of bed because when we go out we have no shield, feel the feelings of the other meez walking about as
if our own.
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 toddles and falls without injury.
That me stands outside my burning house, 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.
That me longs for community with other meez, but doesn’t have the time, energy, clear communication, or conflict resolution
skills 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 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 — we live — in a paradise — secretly present in everyday life — dark underside. 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.