Saturday, April 14, 2012


Whenever I am confronted with the sentimentality of a Cheerio
Rolling toward me across a table, I choose
Not to intervene in my own undoing: the drastic measures
You've heard so much about in the media
Are useless against the hurt feelings of history.

I'm speaking of personal history here, its potato
Wedges and its crimes against reason. Yes, we are all infatuated
With certain special others for a period of time,
Taking out our junk and having it too.
Then as we grow older, we see ourselves
In each other and are disgusted, too bothered
By our debts to see beyond them to the designated exit.

As a youth I was beholden to such demerits,
But lately I have come to familiarize
Myself with potential methods of acting out.
I am a grownup now but still I desire much
In the way of immediate gratification—something I enjoy

Is to digest the injured air of social studies
In small doses, and to have it be a problem I like to have,
Far more fulfilling than a thoroughly pleasant jaunt
Into expanding heavenly vacancies
In which I am forced to limit myself to myself
And luckless threads of inquiry into loss and how to love it.