Oh, to desire
To appreciate
To be thankful for
The touch, the taste, the sight, the smell
Every ounce, a heaven waiting for me
To want so much it literally hurts
Aches, pains, bores
Into my soul, my very inner person
But
It’s the same, stupid cliché
It’s the old story
The one told
Again and
Again.
Repeat.
Pain is a cancor sore on my right cheek
it hits me like a splash of light when I brush my teeth.
Why oh Why oh Why oh Why did I buy that toothbrush with the tongue scrubber on the back?
Like oil prices, pain races to my brain unexpected and devastating
And simmers down slow despite how much I want it to just go away.
Like my heartbeat after seeing a beautiful barista: so fast,
but I want to slow slow
slow down.
So as to enjoy every
moment.
or maybe that’s the coffee…
Cancor sores stay with you for weeks growing bigger every day until you just can’t stand it any more.
Then it pauses at the threshold of pain as if to say, “never forget me.”
And I won’t. Dear God I won’t. At least whenever I eat a ketchup drenched burger
or a bowl of spaghetti.
The cancor snarls at the acid, but I pour it on anyway. I’ll not let nature decide what I can’t eat.
No sore is the master of my mouth. Except
when I brush my teeth.
The rough ridges of the tongue scrubber scrub the wrong part of my right cheek.
That is when the tears finally arrive.
Whispers in the cold scratch the thick air
a soft, quivering sound nobody but the keenest would notice.
It bounces off walls and echos off the ceiling
blanketing the small, lonely room with holy torment.
Pleas and confessions surf the static sound
bulging with liquid desperation
and moistening the air like a London fog.
Wisps of sadness and bolts of anger
hum and twirl as a defeated soul rests his head
on a damp pillow
with only a frightening silence to comfort him.
Whatever happened to running around in circles?
Energy overflowing like water in a cannonballed pool
the happiest you ever felt
was springing back and forth over a jet of water meant to water a lawn, greener than the salty ocean and brighter than a smiling face
Allergy bumps, skinned knees, knotted heads, scabs, scrapes, bruises, and scars.
Testimonials of fun and fun themselves.
An entire day poking rolly-polies and climbing impossible mountains
Playing in the invisible kingdom of maypretend
and humming to yourself the themesong of your favorite cartoon
while driving a race car along the wall.
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
I’d shave my head into a tall green mohawk
Held tight together in spikes by glue
Not that white Elmer’s but the blue stuff
That gets harder than stone
I’d light up my last cigarette
After snuffing the previous on
The Surgeon General’s warning emblazoned
Upon the crumpled corpse of the pack I’d just destroyed
I’d take a swig from the bottle of Jack
I’d pilfered from Thom down the street
Because he spelled his name with an H
To accent his cool sideburns
I’d wear striped golfer’s pants
And two different kinds of combat boots
Spray-painted black despite the fact
That the left one came in black anyways
I’d wear a metal studded trenchcoat
Over a tattered T-shirt I found on the ground last week
It says, “It’s Hard To Be Humble When You’re Scottish”
But my great-grandfather was Welsh and his Irish.
Whoever makes safety pins would owe me some gratitude
They’d hold up my pants
Accessorize my ear
And, apparently, affix my eyebrow to my face
I’d flick off roadsigns and puke on walls
Angry about the goth girl whom I loved
And met at the party last night
She wore checkered Chucks and liked Weezer
But only the first album because the last one sucked
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
But really I’m Mark Twain
After he’s had a really bad day
After he scratched on the nine-ball,
Put out the stub of his last cigar,
Laid down in bed,
And wishes he was still Sam.
_______
Music Party
Rock and Pop dance in the middle
Secretly thinking they’re better than the other
Metal and Hip Hop sneer at each other
I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a fight
Reggae philosophizes with Ska
Who cracks jokes and tells him to relax for some reason
Blues tells country that his girl just left him
Country tells him the same thing but adds something about his dog and truck
Emo cries in the corner
Grunge lights a cigarette and tells him to shut up, he doesn’t care
Classical tries to organize the whole thing
Nobody really listens
Punk drinks himself into a stupor,
Kicks down the door and goes outside
Yelling, “Fuck You!” to anybody who’ll listen.
I secretly want to be Punk.
