aspirations or affirmations
i never quite figured out the
in being a poet, and i never could get the plot together, the words forever, to be a novelist, and i never quite managed the lifestyle it takes to be a rogue, a rebel, a writer. i always wanted to know what they know and see the world like that,
think in line breaks
with only a couple words
and one or two
you really just
what im trying to say
but no, i can lie on my bed, there's this bit of pain in the small of my back but i dont want to move and i don't want to stretch it, i just want to listen and wait, and work it out, and watch it go. my eyes just want to close, and my days just want to end and start again, and my words want to flow but im just so scared of them, im scared of saying what i think i could say and i don't want to talk like the person i am, i just want to sit in solitary watching meteor showers waiting for the morning to come and i get the train ride to work with my book and my headphones, and i watch everyone coming up the escalator while im on my way back down. i transfer from the 6 to the e at 51st street with all the guys who play the saxophone under manhattan, and all the silent types who want to make eye contact with the girl they'll marry, and want a fairytale romance every morning on their way to work, a romance under new york city -- it's a reason to get up in the morning, and a reason to go home at night. in this city, i think, you kind of need both.
i've got a bit of both. i like my books and my cats and my bed, i like the bar across the street and the caesar salad at hale and hearty. it's no dinner at plato's, but it tastes a lot better.
what are we doing here, dancing around in our underwear waiting for someone to pick us out and pull our feet from the grass, what are we doing here? i'm just waiting for a bit of explanation, a bit of radiation from poison ivy, a bit of complication since health and wealth have never been my first priority, in me or in you. for me it's just the crazies and the midnight streetlight singers and the puddle-jumping maniacs with patched up silver backpacks playing disarm on the piano, banging hard on the keys with me, in the background, playing softly rhythm guitar.
Poem © 2001 Anonymous 01, all rights reserved
appears here by permission