it future shock.
it mass discomfort with the fact of our own mortality.
it what you will, but everyone's got insomnia
days, up, still up, fretting and fretting,
text goes like this:
the future, no more bacteria.
the future, less traffic
new dance craze to catch on to.
the future, the daughters who spilled
juice on the oriental rug are loved
the same, everyone is forgiven,
trying to be at home here
the back-end of the millennium,
is every thing so urgent now?
can't finish the poem
have to go out and flirt
don't think I've laughed
hard I couldn't stop,
don't have the nerve
weather an apocalypse
I still haven't said
what I meant:
want to be good. I know that I'm not
to stop being angry
people who accidentally
me with their shoulder satchels
the sidewalk. Are you
tired as I am? Can you fathom
knowledge that someone who saw you
last week might clap you on the back
in this bar, call you by a nickname,
not ever once say he's been thinking
course you know the way we treat each other is basically dishonest,
did you know that we are not indignant about this?
knowledge of this
too much for the bed.
won't have me sleeping past noon anymore.
have to get up and accomplish.
life I want to lead
its own soundtrack.
I want to live life ecstatically.
want to pull back the curtain
not see the rotten skeleton bones behind it.
at the man dancing on the block
leopard-print g-string underpants.
at the blood orange
deep scarlet insides