To Be Rid of a Rival

For this curse,       you need a liter of good grain liquor

and a heartful       of unquenchable hate.

Keep the bottle corked,       and spend a long, dry night

thinking of everything       your rival has

that ought to be yours.

                                     At dawn, roll up your trousers

and set off barefoot       down an unmaintained

side road that dissolves into sand,       then dead-ends

at the river.       Walk upstream until you see

the swift skein of the water       tangle and fray,

marking the snag

                              where the river dumps its garbage.

An almost spokeless       bicycle wheel, an oil drum,

two traffic cones       and the aluminum

bones of a beach chair       have fetched up on this altar

of wet rock and weed.       Wade in as close

as you can to make your own

                                                 ugly offering.

The stream may be icy,       but your stoked-up rage

will keep you warm       as you unstop the bottle

and drink deep,       wishing your rival

gone gone gone gone.       Your curse will gain

strength with every swig.

                                            Picture a heart attack;

picture a jittery       mugger with a gun;

a missed stoplight       and a truck; a sailboat

in a thunderstorm.       When your head starts to swim,

take a final pull,       then throw the bottle hard

onto the trash heap. A trail

                                               of white lightning will

glitter for an instant like shards       of glass across the air.

Wish once more.       If your libation is accepted,

some misfortune will soon       carry your rival away­—

cast off, washed up, worn down—       until nothing is left

but a slight catch       in the river’s throat.

 Melissa Monroe

ecclesiastes

The trick is that you’re willing to help them.
The rule is to sound like you’re doing them a favor.

The rule is to create a commission system.
The trick is to get their number.

The trick is to make it personal:
No one in the world suffers like you.

The trick is that you’re providing a service.
The rule is to keep the conversation going.

The rule is their parents were foolish,
their children are greedy or insane.

The rule is to make them feel they’ve come too late.
The trick is that you’re willing to make exceptions.

The rule is to assume their parents abused them.
The trick is to sound like the one teacher they loved.

And when they say “too much,”
give them a plan.

And when they say “anger” or “rage” or “love,”
say “give me an example.”

The rule is everyone is a gypsy now.
Everyone is searching for his tribe.

The rule is you don’t care if they ever find it. 

The trick is that they feel they can.

Khaled Mattawa