I watched through the open road with the newest minds of the world
frightened by the question and running
out of tear-duct alleys
out of re-print cartoon artist's writers galleries
("book-sellers to the front service desk please")
into bar-stooled, fun, and unanswerable songs
into the blood cutting about the her.
The question raged through all the types we hid
from beleaguered coffee shops
from post-exotic, melo-erotic clubs,
and we couldn't hitch a ride -
- out from ranting to rave about people's blogs
to have passed the time with pride-
-some dress in black against goth-lit walls
don't get hit by the -
- "oh, do not ask," Mr. Eliot, "'what is it?'
Let us go and make [
our]
visit " *
to colleges frat houses whore people
beer bong
to indie-whatevers
where we can sit forever long
to sub-urbia!
where we stretch for one thousand miles every square inch
there we can keep the question hidden in a pretty pinch among copy-
-white houses,
We can store the copy to nobody's life:
a piece of paper on a bad, social critic bored as bad sex in church-yard parking lot
and sweat house summers with mechanical weather
(don't you dare catch us).
I would've walked out the other night,
caught the nearest bus, and
I would've gone to the next continent last month, but
I, instead, found blindness in the one-billionth street light
at another sad-corner-sight and came to a
Sandy beach. with her, ambitious girl No. 0-- on a hunch.
'Look at that!'
She said. I said
'What?'
Locked my car door to see what was the -
- two years ago that
kids we're piled into an un-lit car -
on the side
of a dirt road - chasing
the orange dim Fireflies in the night -
When I was
little, I'd chase fireflies but not like this -
why?
Dead is the word experiment
anymore -
- high school and we'd be told
the day - writers break away
from ideal-surreal -
and we'd become the nation of modernists
or we became the nation of modernists
Did decidedly literary cannon forget the next step?
Should we experiment or -
- at least've thought but some
hippie could have offered more than a half-heart'd-dumb-luck explanation
and
explication to their lives'
poem?
and as we're out on the beach
A whale passes by us
spouts water clear up to the sky
The cold wind whips so hard and
someday we will and most definitely
Someday, we will die,
and up, and then down and forward, and then back
the planets will swing mercilessly,
but somewhere, the sixteen
year old red-head-sweet whatever:
is rashing up her coke -
because somewhere in the universe:
collapses.
* the quote is from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
and I really got to fall in love with another poem.
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