blind corners

or, you definitely do not need to vomit in the punch bowl like that Kirsten Dunst movie thanks

A poem.


when he thinks of the top
ten-percent of his thoughts,
beyond getting high,

beyond getting off,

beyond suppressing the weirdo’s muck,
he probably considers what he’s given away
over and above a fuck.


and no, he’s not talking about his virginity 
but stuff.


just,
things.
the kind he can never get back sort of stuff.

even though he still buys it three times over sort of
stuff.
marvel at the kind-of-a-one collection nobody
wanted, cared for, or asked about stuff.
it’s embarrassing to even bring up.
the things and the stuff.


the same for acquaintances he’s accidentally
blown pot smoke in the
faces of

with their coming around blind corners.
if it really meant something then it wouldn’t have sundered.


tomatoes, potatoes

A poem.


television permits us its
unassailable truths
as escapism:

generic hygienic,
purposeless youth
earn first-meets and whole Fridays with
ten-star heartbreaks in waiting –
despite the real world red flags that
demoing all your breakfast doth bring –


and they look into their eyes as the whales coo

and a fight ensues,
because each assumes what side of the tracks
the other derives,
as often occurs at the end of act two


and he’s home
middle-aging
with the before-bed Pringles in his hand ruminating,
“when was the last time that ever happened to me?”

the good parts, he means,
forgetting or not acknowledging what’s already been.