Posts Tagged ‘Age’

The prominent gray

white and blue of the supermarket gives

     way to your familiar faces.

We confront each other with casual friendship.

The words

from your tongue

      are the usual sharp, sour curses mixed in

            to everyday dialogue.

your beards are genitals

sewn onto your faces.

One of you

       is still pubescent, though

      really having just entered adulthood.

We talk.

One of you barely whispers that I’m “…a

       pussy, right?”

One of you comments how there will be nothing to do but

“drink and fuck” where I’m going.

     I almost want to say 

     “just like you do?” and bring up your girlfriends.

What do they see in you?

      And you can go breathe in cancer,

meanwhile I can feel my heart

is ten times heavier than both of yours,

          ten times larger.

That nonchalance,

      that callousness,

that you two possess

is not something I wish to be cursed with,

and I feel more mature than both of you.

     I feel older-

     responsible.

I unwittingly comprehend,

      I have something to live for.

My eyes are dry.

My lungs feel like wool sweaters

rolled and stuffed inside me.

Spine is slowly turning into the St. Louis Arch.

Bones stiff as flint.

Muscles like ink pens, exuding

pain from the inside, out.

I’m turning into cardboard.

I’ll be arthritic

before I’m twenty.

O but if you could see how lonely I am,

for I am young and crave that sickening, sweet,

drink known as pity. And I am lonely;

I house a heart that is heavy with burdens

that many men and women have held before-

but they are new to me, and I state,

once again, I am young, and with youth

comes yet another burden: inexperience.

To what Lengths does

the green lawn Grass grow?

In this Modern Age, it seems,

That we’ll never Know.

Sweet lady,

you’ve shrunk to a corn husk,

your eyes bulge with water-weight,

you’re hunched over like a crescent moon.

Prattle on in Polish 

among the younger adults

who sip wine, that sour nectar.

 

I’m a ghost in the room.

I fade into the gray walls.

My disinterest fuels my observation,

and, if you’ll forgive me, my ignorance

towards announced recollection of days long gone 

(fond memories I’ll sneeze at in the future).

I notice the pot bellies– as one grays,

one grows out– the obsession with the menial,

and I realize I want glamour,

I want flashing lights and millions to know my name,

then I won’t be wide eyed, staring at a dog.

Then I’ll be able

to make conversation

with people who mutually want to,

to talk about things 

that actually have meaning.