issue91courage

                                   ??             ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** David Mark Dannov: I'm 34, struggling to make it as a writer. I've written novels and poetry books, a children's novel that is under contract with Touch Smart Publishing, and I make clay monster heads, and paintings, and sometimes I draw. If your'e at all curious to see my work, you can check it out at www.DavidMarkDannov.com Go to www.blackjokepress.com to see my latest poetry chapbooks published by black joke press; fossil face, my band, just released our album Blackwood Universe, which is available for purchase on the black joke press website. Myspace address for my band Fossil Face is: www.myspace.com/fossilface We're playing local gigs in Long Beach. As of now, we have 3 new songs. I substitute teach and water plants to pay the bills. Still looking over the prison walls, trying to plan my great escape.

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Courage

by David Mark Dannov

Knowing it was important
to her,
I attended my girlfriend's
master's graduation.

It was held
on the campus of CSULB.

     After seeing her accept her degree,
I stood up amongst the seated crowd,
    walked out of the closed off
area, and strolled around
the campus.

I had time to kill.
They had a thousand more names to call.

            Everywhere I turned,
            there were hundreds of people:
            friends and relatives
            attending the ceremony.

Bored, and feeling anxious
   from the crowd,
I walked over to the campus bar,
and ordered a beer.

Then I snuck out through a back
door (I wasn't allowed to carry
the beer outside) and wandered
over to the psychology courtyard—
     the specific area Danielle
     told me to meet her
     after the ceremony.

So there I was,
sitting Indian style
on the cement,
drinking Coors
in a plastic white cup;
it was nice.
I had found a good spot in the shade—
my back against the wall
of a classroom.

But I wasn't exactly
    relaxed.

I hadn't slept well
that entire week
     because
     Danielle and I had almost split up.

Plus, I was coming down with some kind of cold,
my stomach queasy, sweaty palms,
hot and cold flashes, that kind of thing.
     So what the hell—
     I figured a beer would help sooth my nerves; it worked. I got a warm little buzz
as I watched all the people
standing around,
talking,
embracing.
     They were all so groomed,
dressed up for the occasion.
     I didn't like them.
            They were like my parents,
like most of western America,
     ignorant,
            unsupportive
     of anything against the grain,
     against wanting to be different.

They had ceremonies for people who earned
     degrees,
     not for struggling writers.

To them, people like me were considered losers,
which was a reality I had come to terms with
years ago,
but it never took away
    the rage
    I'd feel
    when I saw it up close
and personal.

They could've cared less
     that I waited tables
     for twelve years,
     even with a college degree,
     in order to write—

that I got divorced
     and delivered pizza
            to pay the bills—

that I've been fired
            from dozens of jobs
              faced with the fear
    of being homeless—

            that I lived (and still live) in poverty
            and can't afford new shoes
            or new tires for my car.

No medical insurance. No dental.

Sometimes writing six or seven hours
    in front of the screen (after a full day of work)
     for no money
      with the risk
       of never being recognized
        for my efforts.

Spending rent money
   on envelopes and paper
     and ink and postage,
       waiting months for the mail,
         all for the probability
           of an editor's rejection.

Road trips, traveling out of state,
            skiing in Mammoth,
            flying overseas:
            these things were all a fantasy
            in my world,

and yet, here these people were,
            walking past me as if I were
            a ghost:
            relatives, friends, fathers, mothers, uncles
all smiling
            and laughing
            under the protection
            of censoring their lives,
            censoring their conversations,
            censoring their opinions
            until they weren't even aware of what
courage meant anymore.
And if they did, they tried to avoid it
in order to justify
their own cowardly existence.

     Courage was a word rarely spoken of
            in this country.

It was something from the movies,
            distant,
            not real,

              cute
    and cuddly

like a pretty girl
on graduation day
    walking
      through the crowd
with a flower
     in
       her
         hair.

July 2007