I sit across from a man,
we look at each other
without shifting our heads,
it’s a staring contest
like the ones from lunch
in junior high school.
My opponent has no face
I am afraid he might win.
I try to picture him with
eyes, blinking, signifying
my victory, but I cannot.
He is tougher than to fall
for such trickery. He simply
sits there blankly, wearing
me to the point of exhaustion.
I rapidly throw my hands
above my head, screaming:
He has won! He has won!
I have no time for games
that are unfair towards me.
I run circles about the table
chanting silly rhymes and
When we talk about making love; it is
as though we already are; it is as though
the world has collapsed at our feet and
all the walls that held us at their mercy
have been destroyed and we are left among
the ashen ruins; as though we have been
placed there all along; it is as though we are
Adam and Eve, sent to make our Eden
from these crumbs, this devastation left; and
in that hour when we hold each others’ bodies
naked in the cold sun, when our bodies
lie exhausted quivering; it will be
as though we never parted before or
holding forever while time slips endless.
Well, it’s 2am, which could only mean one thing I’m working. The front desk job is not helping at all with the bout of insomnia I’ve been having. I never thought I would say it, but I hate fucking school and just want to drop out, living in my car off McDonald’s food and poetry writing. Maybe I’ll skip down to Mexico and die of exposure, like my protï¿½gï¿½ (Neal Cassady). Other than the normal depression (angst) I’m all peaches and cream.
I find it odd writing letters at this time of day. Maybe I know that they will probably never be sent, but more likely it is because I know when I wake up (that is if I go to sleep) I won’t be the same person. I’ve found that I’m happier with my faï¿½ade then I am with myself, which causes problems beyond my rational train of thought at the moment. As it has shut down, uncoupled, and garaged sleeping peacefully wishing my body would join it.
God knows how many letters I’m going to write before I send anything off. Unfortunately, god didn’t inform me on his/her decision and if he/she did, it must have been during a time when I was refusing to believe in him/her. Anyway, I hope things on the home front are looking up. Hopefully, you have found someone that has restored your faith in males, even though we all are childish and immature.
There really should be a class that tells you how to live. No, scratch that. There should be a class that tells you how not to live. Maybe run it on HBO and call it Life: It’s so Goddamn Fun. Wait, I think they already have a show like that.
At the soles of passing shoes,
on the road no one travels,
the place ants have invented
a specific feeler wave: Rock Land.
It isn’t all bad, the fixed monotony
of the day, shuffling from place
to place with a bit of leaf fragment,
granules of undigested sugar,
a fallen comrade’s body.
A simple sexless society; exist
to work for the collective, ensure
the survival of the commune.
Marxis, or a greater monastic order?
One scampers over scaled-down
mountains, going around those
that seem too much effort
for a quick run, almost mindlessly
(maybe they’re evolved beyond minds).
I am coming
the second coming this year
preceded by my friends’ same
“When will you come?
Today? This hour?
In a month, or two,
We’ll have cold beer!
Maybe even a keg!
And will sit at your feet
listen to stories
of places you’ve been.”
I wish I could raise them
to their feet and shake each
calloused hand of those
that have remained to work
on the farms or in the plant.
Show them I am no better
because I’ve been at the
un-i-vers-ity, bein’ pointless
book l’arned while they’ve been
workin’ workin’ workin’
punchin’ the clock at 7 A.M.