Five thirty in the morning
Waiting for the first bus of the day, are a woman and her husband
Don't know how old
But a little round, a little gray, a little bald.
I guess is it was the woman, who was going places
They were dressed up
But just a little
So I guess they were going to Praha
Early
So maybe for some sale
No really
I am certain it was the well dressed lady who was going to the Golden City
To do some serious shopping
Today he was just an assistant
He looked bored as hell, holding the nail polish, while she fixed up her nails
Sure he did!
But, I am sure he knows that if he didn't do this
He'd be left to his own devices
That means drinking himself to death at the football club
And not knowing what to do at a birthday party even if he remembered when anyone's was
But I am sure he's happy he doesn't have to
Even though two minutes of holding nail polish is a veeery long time
At least that is how I recall it from when my mother made me hold it as a child

His life, he’d been frequently told,

Was a stepping stone to

Something better. His growing religious convictions

Taught him about the different levels

Of god.

The innocent child, sacrificial man, distant father,

Steadfast sister and mother.

It taught him not to lust after his pretty neighbours,

Man or woman, nor to daydream

Of unlikely trysts with all the inherent dangers

Involved but to expend his energies

In religious ecstasy instead

Agonising inwardly over the beatitude

And the internal landscape of the soul.

By the time he was forty, he reckoned

He’d got a raw deal. No money, no career,

No friends, just a lot of ****** prayers.


They put her coffin gently in

And he cried, watching it disappear

Unable to think of heaven.

He was not consoled now

By thoughts of

Infinite life.

The slow sounding of a repetitious tune

Amongst cloudy vistas of

Over egged benevolence.


He’d missed the boat, through

Worshipping too much. A rotund

Middle-aged man

With a sagging mind, brown teeth

And old fashioned clothes.

All he had now were his church

And his mother’s dying friends.


He threw dust over his mother’s grave

And walked softly away.

Do what you know is right
The fae-eyed stare
Pulls you outward
Thank them for the cool air
Brushing your feverish hair
Stop walking
Sit down before the world
Falls on your shoulders


I care enough to
bake a batch of innocence
before I go and
I struggle with my sweaters
everytime that it snows
And some days are more
difficult
than others, yes I'm not
often present in front
of the mirror
But give me a little time
to buy new furniture
And put things back
where they belong
Won't be long

Soon
I will swim without falling
Soon
I'll be able to observe
strangers while sitting
on a park bench
without being accused
of stalking

Soon
I can pause
for comedic timing [thank you, thank you]
Soon
maybe I'll have a new
best friend who I can
make out with
strings attached
And he'll like my hair
(...as much as I do)
Soon
people will say things
and really fathom
their words
They're wrong--
Won't be long

Until
I have a little fun
Until
I get to see someone
fall in love
Until
we crash and dance and
burn simultaneously
as if dying after living
only a short time
that felt long
Until
I die alone but maybe
a bit happy on the side
Then until
I live again

You say to yourself,
"Do what you know is right
and hang strife from the sun"
How do I know when I've
won?
("Won" is just a letter
and an apostrophe from
"won't"
And that's the funny thing
The future hasn't
met us yet, but it knows
how to play games)
Here's the perfect analogy
ever created:
To reach the answer
is to dig down down down
to china!

Yet doesn't it feel like
a daydream?
Like befriending your
favorite celebrity or perhaps
even seeing the end
of a war begun before
your lifetime

When all you can do is

Sit down, stop walking
before the future clutches
your arms, pressing
hard.
This is when you pull outward
and away.
You stare with those
unblinking, glassy eyes
who look omnipotent because
you're middle-aged and
they contain the
words from your wild youth.
(And with these words I can say
'I love you', future which I
will come to know.)

The closet which is warm
and cautious
has enough goals to drive-by
Hit-and-run ridding of
the winning that I live by
I struggle to walk in flip-flops
in the summer
But remind me that I'm
somewhat lost and I enjoy it,
sort of, once in a while,
Especially when everything
comes together again