Monday, March 19, 2012

You Just Pretend That You Never Have Met

the beer was spicy
no seriously
spicy
but when the smoke had cleared
he knew that the problem was more than just a spicy beer
...not that a spicy beer was the problem
he actually rather enjoyed the interplay
between bitter and spicy
the cold and the burn
but still
the beer was spicy

and when one finds himself in a world that makes
if not too much sense
at the very least some
putting ones lips to what is
by all accounts
an aberration
leaves one feeling
...off
and combined with all the other problems
with the problem
it's easy to focus on the one thing that is so clearly, so unequivocally, so...
off

he'd been sitting
and drinking, sure,
but mostly
sitting
but also
there was a fair share of waiting
as well as staring
wondering
hoping
expecting
considering
planning
dreaming
sighing
not to mention
not knowing
but mostly
waiting
but really
sitting
and it was the sitting that he knew so well
and that...
he had that down

the problem was not so much grand in scope
and to be honest
they rarely are
but was rather one of simple human failure
like losing your way in a conversation
and knowing there was a point to be made
only to realize so far after the point of making that it is
in fact
too late to make such a point
not that you could remember it anyway
but a problem
no matter how small
is still
to be honest
problematic

it had always been the small things that had gotten him in trouble
and if not trouble exactly
it was that the big things had never done such
not even close
those big things
whether overwhelming
or unbelievable
or simply so absurd to his generally protected constitution
as to be simply nothing
had always been just that
nothing
or rather
a just enough of a something to be brushed away
and brushed away so completely as to be forgotten

but the small things
those were the ones that stuck
not a permanent stick
or not necessarily
but enough
to be stapled inside his chest
the kind of things that one carries
from one setting to another
throughout the day
despite the external
and on many occasions
because

he stopped and looked up at the clock on the wall
all twelve hands ticking away
at different intervals
but each with mechanical purpose
an almost holy inspiration
driving each forward to death
to sudden rebirth
and around again

strangers walked in
some left
but strangers all
each and everyone
and strangers are not the ones who stick

but it was always back to the sitting
the waiting
as well as the staring
the wondering
the hoping
the expecting
the considering
the planning
the dreaming
the sighing
not to mention
the not knowing
but mostly
the waiting
but really
the sitting
and it was the sitting that he knew so well
and that...
he had that down

he went back to that spicy beer
the interplay
between bitter and spicy
the cold and the burn
the smoke beginning to unclear itself
back to the problems
to the problem
and decided
unequivocally
to switch to whiskey
...not that a spicy beer was the problem

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

But I Was So Much Older Then

the hope
at least
i think
is to one day
a big if
make a living
of this
nonsense

the big city wanderings
the late nights
the too many cigarettes
the drinking
sweet jesus
the drinking
internal immolation
disguised
as culinary arcana
but eventually
yes
a self made life
of words
on a page
and that
well that's it
no invention
no discovery
no goods no services
no management of men
simply words
on a page
nothing more
just
it

but the question really
and the one on my mind
is how
publishing?
ha
and while we're at it
and did i mention
haha
The New Yorker?
The Atlantic?
Playboy?
i hear they still publish
words
among other things
but poems?
not the kind i write

lectures perhaps
readings
symposia?
all for college students
wide-eyed
and sore-assed
from nights out
and nights in
waiting for
the o'clock hour
the time meant
for moving on
to lesser subjects
of greater gain
computer science
economics
business class
basically
future titans
universe masters
nearly half my age
and twice the income

no i think i'll keep things
just as they are
quietly working
for a living
and late nights spent
with pen
with cigarette
with drink
my writing shoes on
pre-dawn scrawl
of words on a page
and that
the big if
well that's it
nothing more
just
it