This is a Saturday night poem,
And I am feeling foreign in the usual places –
The writing hand,
The head,
The abdomen,
And the sinking sensation
In the upper chest.
It is a sad night to be alone,
The last of the liquor
And the last cigar
Long gone.
I am feeling tired
And quiet
Watching the unfamiliar faces
Pass through the door.
Not even prose
Or obscure locations
Can help me escape you,
An idle fancy brought to an idle end.
Memories lie,
Pedestals obscure,
And I am alone
With the small sound
A girl exhales
When she is lost.
Perhaps the idea of you
Was more appealing to me
Than you ever were,
But I was devoted to the idea,
And I would have been.
Joshua –
I won’t begin to argue
The flaws in your logic;
I won’t begin to defend against
Your false perceptions of me.
Perhaps the idea of me
Didn’t warrant further investigation,
But I would like to say
You cannot sum me up
In 75 words
(or less)
and lay me out
in pieces
on the table
for your inspection.
I am more
Than a layer
Of seeing what you want to see.
I am more
Than a layer
Of prose and a nice ass.
My youth is lost on you.
Your youth is lost on you –
Trying so hard to avoid an ideal
You have become an ideal –
A stereotype
I would have liked to meet,
But my casual judgmental
And your judgmental casual
Didn’t allow me
This stanza of a chance.