Never Don’t Give Up
I forgot. Again. Now that we’re in our forties, we’re supposed to talk about good, healthy food. Or complain about the younger generations – they’re gonna ruin everything. I have nothing to say about any of that. Would much rather talk about music, sex or video games. Really trying to be an optimist here, but it’s getting so damn lonely. Loony, if you ask my friends. Took some mushrooms, had a trip, played with kittens in their teacups as roses in the garden turned into cartoonish birds. “The hell you doin’ here?” they asked me with their huge silly eyes.
Yeah … Wish I knew.
*
Fear and Lust
"I think I finally found out why lust is considered a deadly sin," he thought as he watched her work, or sleep, or read. "It's not about lust itself, but about the absence of anything else," he thought, half-listening to her curse at the traffic.
"Right now I feel only fear and lust," he said right before they had sex for the first time – but lately, fear had started to dwindle from his life, and he often found himself staring into empty spaces. It had been ages since they last touched one another.
*
Glinting Cobweb Trails Deeper, Stiller
we asked for more
as the snails on the wall
left traces
as if to mark the time
when nothing happened
yet something changed dramatically
it moved
as if a colossal concrete monument
half hidden in the fog
would subside a little further into the ground
and disturb the groundwater
and the monument had no markings
and the water would be beyond my reach
it happened
it persists
as we ask no more
the near becomes close
the beneath inside
*
My, Or, And and I
I haven't been myself since the pandemic
I haven't been myself since I'm off the meds
I haven't been myself since I’ve had success with writing
I haven't been myself since I’ve started taking meds
I haven't been myself since I finished college
Haven’t been since high school
Or since I first smoked pot
Or my first orgasm
My mom’s stroke
My first crush
The bullying
Family
And all the breathing
Eating
Peeing
Could say I have mostly been I haven't
Probably even everything given anyhow should
But have a feeling I is a seat meant to stay empty
And myself unrelated – and vastly overrated
*
Like Me
With her loose, colorful clothes and accessories
I couldn't even name,
she reminded me of a butterfly
— is that okay?
As if caught in a net of are-we-there-yet?,
she seemed to be waiting
for the next best thing,
the next top disaster, next best trauma
— is that okay? Can I go on?
Sometimes, I swear to God,
poets and writers deliberately make bad decisions
just to get new stuff to write about
— does that feel good? Is there, like, any pain?
Does anything ever really hurt
in this we-ain’t-there-yet?