The absolute ******* grind of it,
each inch upholstered rough,
sandpaper cushions and *******,
this is school my loves:
best days of your life,
except the frequent crying
and wishing for an end,

but then
the dazzle blather
of someone excited by your subject,
your patient, pent up words
heard
and your bitten cynicism scuffs enough
to see your old electric truths beneath

one of the most painful journeys
takes you to a destination you never intended to visit

you spend days engulfed in pictures and daydreams of bright colors and future memories

until one day you look up to a view so paralyzingly dull, not even your hope could see you through

yuppie ****
think you're an intellectual
cause you say a few fanciful words
recite a few blurbs
of things you misheard
smarter men speak
you wreak
pathetic and weak
and you can barely stand
to look me in the eye
i see right through you
this is no position
you're suited to

Sometimes, tides behind teeth get stuck
as if the moon, distracted,
looses its inexorable pull

then all the weight of water
sits stagnant
while each pescatarian thought
from the zipping, inconsequential minnow
to the ponderous whale bulk
sulks, sick and stuck

If you see these green gills,
or the overspill in the eyes of those
you know
maybe sit awhile, harbour side
and cast a line or two

They say that beggars
Cannot be choosers
For they end life as losers
Choosing to snooze
As they drown in *****
For even the highest of standards
Hit the ceiling
Better to remain low
Than to stray
Unless what they desire
Can never go away

The best poems avoid eye contact.

Just before you find their rhythm,
catch their direction,
they dance away,
and you watch their beauty,
leaving

you full of wanting
wishing
you knew the steps
hoping
you might keep up
wondering
where they led
leaving
you to tap your feet,
missing
every third or fourth beat,
kidding
yourself that you too
could be sliding, shuffling
and maybe grasping the sway,

but they dance away,
and you stay,
while your eyes follow.