it's beyond me, mossy teeth
the black cigarette trembling
between chapped lips
past my mother on the phone saying
"i'm so sorry"
and knowing she might not be lying
this time
something in the autumnal bliss that
fell and now mulches beneath my treading feet
as i step lightly
in the midafternoon sunset of mount pleasant
between brick buildings with no decided purpose
- this boy, not them
they'll teach buzzcuts in suits how to crunch numbers
to buy houses
to raise families and sleep perfectly
soundly after
all i want is for one friend to be honest
i'm sick of walking on eggshells
at both places called home
in the afternoon before europe starts
broadcasting football. when the coffee has yet
to eat into my veins. my eyes are open
and for the first time not crying
i may well
have lost my love
for this place.
Author notes
in the absence of any positive feelings i turned to a bookshelf of poems i once loved
and felt nothing but worry that my best years are behind me
how is that possible?
then i wonder when did my father first encounter regret?
can i be past my prime and legally unable to drink?
will it take a better, muddier vietnam to fix my blood?
i am getting terrified about the thought that some trains just move faster than others
and at the end of the day i bought a ticket worth nothing.
i need a real kick in the ass.
So.. whats you think about it?
Comments
-
"all i want is for one friend to be honest
i'm sick of walking on eggshells
at both places called home" this to me were almost the most important lines in this poem. I actually think that the AN is a continuation of this poem. lots of questions ... hmmm...sometimes we tend to analyze too much ...
why do you think your best years are behind you when you have not experienced the years in front of you? I used to believe that certain moments in my life were gonna be the best ones or that certian moments were so bad that I would not see the light again, but I was wrong. by the way you do need friends who will be honest with you.
-
DOOLEY
WHY IS THE AN NOT IN THE POEM
"it is fairly spectacular. especially this
something in the autumnal bliss that
fell and now mulches beneath my treading feet
as i step lightly
in the midafternoon sunset of mount pleasant
between brick buildings with no decided purpose
- this boy, not them
they'll teach buzzcuts in suits how to crunch numbers
to buy houses
to raise families and sleep perfectly
soundly after
all i want is for one friend to be honest
i'm sick of walking on eggshells
at both places called home"
there is endless real beauty to this. it's truthful.
raww
like, as in raw. but also rawr
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i think the AN is too honest. it's like a compass, and i like how lost this is without any sense of direction. heh. that's dorky. anyways, i'm okay. my poetry isn't, it's sad. i like that those two finally aren't the same thing.
i'm just feeling "old" or, "not young"
a fairly significant amount of time has passed between when i started writing, and who i am now. it's just weird.
also, rawr.
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i absolutely love this.
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