David Swanson
Let’s be big men and contemplate the suit and the sun.
I know I’m great without a woman,
but the opposite direction is a learned enlightenment.
A maturity stance, a left turn surprise, I learned long ago.
Major steps return and playful demons
tickle my Monday morning cripple complex
that fades from 10-5.
They’re subservient when Mike drinks coffee with me
in the early morning before I go to work.
He’s unemployed.
He’s up early because he’s a taxi cab service
trained by guilt and routine.
Tomorrow might be a poem,
but I probably won’t write it down.
Tonight’s a right handed workout,
my fingers soft from middle habits that look like
misdirected passion.
It took a career to make me still
Radio journalism replaces unstructured sentence therapy,
the next light bright always coming after I’m ready,
unprepared for self responsibility.
I find myself on the number 3 bus inspired and without
the proper poetry tools.
It dissolves and I forget.
I rearrange the stuff animals on my bed.
I didn’t pack them when I left my parents basement.
Be an antique, an old wood table finished with cherry varnish,
hope flavored fuckups that illicit pretentious comments
at your false hipster party.
If there’s an audience, I’m more likely to lie.
I’m more likely to present surface creativity I know will get women wet.
My skinny frame grand, big arms that curl stereotypes and
a round chest ideal for a nineteen 80′s porno.
I don’t need you Granville Street.
But I still love you.
I’ve lost 20 pounds in two years. It’s not because I’m sad or my body image is impaired.
It’s because I used to be nervous and poor.
I thought too much and didn’t have enough money for both
noon time take our and beer.
It doesn’t matter what I look like, women till stain my sheets,
magic fingers frank, they disgust lust.
They never promise love.
She’s 1 day in 9 months.
But that’s literal.
It doesn’t change my Monday morning cripple complex,
a disturbed commute, 2 buses.
I contemplate never speaking again.
Every blonde haired girl I see frightens me,
because for a second I think she’s you.
I made you my idol. Thinking about your thoughts,
paranoid, forgetting my pillar ideas.
It’s obvious what happens next.
I finish the sentence, get weak and struggle.
The sound or an errand jean jacket button
slapping the inside of my parent’s dryer
reminds me that I’m cared for.
Unfortunately my apartment doesn’t have in house laundry.
I’m forced to hear at Juili’s.
A teacher.
A one night stand.
Someone with a genital blemish and
I’ll I can think about is Melissa.