D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

On Memory

Occurred to me the day before yesterday
all the clever things I’ve ever said
all the things I’ve said that made me feel clever
made me feel smart, made me feel good
made me feel a little happy or a little satisfied for
a little while at least
I can’t remember
not one of them
but every single stupid remark I’ve ever made
that made me wish almost even before I’d said anything that
I could just right then sink into the soil and cease to exist
those things
episodic
perfect fucking recall
and not just that
I don’t even have to recall them at all
they come back to me with great frequency all on their own
and this is pretty banal as far as revelations go
probably everyone has the same problem
but since I’ve only ever been but one person
I don’t know what other people feel
but for me I have to think this speaks to
the way my brain must prioritize
making me feel like shit over not making me feel like shit
after all, if memorability is a measure of emotional power
which I figure it must be one, if not the best one, if not the only one
then seems like shame and regret rate a good bit higher
on my recollective register
than just about anything good
which sounds about right

this realization in that moment made me feel pretty smart
pretty good about myself
pretty clever
so I figured I’d better write it down or surely
I’d forget it entirely.

Pictures Of Paintings

I am the petty god of my
particular lacking happiness, apathy
all the nice words I can use to
dress up pretty much nothing
I can hear them echo but the words don’t echo it’s sad
I think it’s sad how there was only ever but one way
and I guess we’re all just postponing it as long as we can
least if we’re lucky we are ourselves postponing
least if we’re real lucky it’s been decided by
someone else or something
or it’s just decided to remain undecided
it doesn’t matter what which way and we
step onstage to dress it up in colorful words maybe because
it makes us feel a little less awful
since it isn’t pretty or picturesque any more than is the
buckshot-interrupted aggregate grey matter spent
of artists failed and not, vexed to senseless lurid portrait painting
instant printed Jackson Pollock spray of crimson plasma
sulfur scented, boards behind the means congealed as time befits
photos lit in frame fluorescent greyscale selling papers
editors’ captions, name worth recognizance says someone
suicide says someone, maybe sadder than anything maybe
thereby might could coronate, apotheosize
a handful of willfully dead men
but that’s a lie because it doesn’t, not that
never that
but then again even god might paint the drywall with both barrels if he could
after all if I were him I would.