The gray cat squalor of rubbish ruined Looking back on my closeted output It was forlorn in its horribleness Desperate scratching of an inkless pen Thrumming upon narrow ruled paper Sounding like an old guitar Half unwound strings, metal frayed Looking nearly suicidal on the fretboard I worry that my past self was depressed
I look back, cringing in horror Will upon my review of my current self Shrink into the grave unbidden Wary to relieve myself ostentatiously Pretentious, my own corpse shrugs Such things are left to my children To make that face, the squished eyebrows And curled nose, over a filled diaper Invisible threads of disaster, present
To think I called it poetry, verse, rhyme Time machines were invented to kill ourselves Mercifully
I sat across a table today from a young man He is brash to rough, and bold as brass Wondering where his earned dues are from all As if he is God's gift, expecting reward Hand outstretched, placatingly seeking nothing Nothing that I can provide, evaporating Glances, furtive eye contact, desperation stinks It is in my nose, I can feel it on my skin He got it all over me, and showering fails
But my time machine of my inner mind Fired up, the time rods shifted upwards Humming, thrumming, turning about, thrusting upon And I found myself, there… on the other side A young man, a rock star, god's very own gift Blessed upon the earth with aplomb and gusto Circumstance for pomp and praises trumpeted Aloud, that is where I was, deserving Palms wide to outstretched, expecting gifts
To think I was him once, the verve, the noise I spent twenty years to abandon him Thankfully
Grace is the gift of the elder, given graciously Wisdom is the curse to know it takes precedence Over anything else. Kindness matters, once But in these things, I am certain most soundly No emergency flare will light, no alarm will sound Canaries might die in their cages at the mines But the messenger will not notice their passing They will only notice danger when it is bare Present, bearing its teeth eagerly
Who was I all those years ago? This very question prompts me to think Of the moments spread in morning to night I am what I have pretended the longest Conning even myself with some actual progress That kid, man. That kid, he scares me Writing poetry on beat nights, caffeinated Being miserable without license and fee Carrying a mountain of self invented shit
Life is nothing but irony illustrated Truth laid bare, barren, exposed and shirking Unforgivably