Thursday, October 1, 2009

People Keep Telling Me the 20somethings are a Difficult Time

Still at this age, my crudbug child dramatics

split my conscious brain

like dried motel soap, too late

to clay together its pieces.

It is embarrassing to be haunted

by the crayon-sketches on the bathroom walls,

a cave painting,

showing the next evolution of self

where the last one became extinct --

a corpse of consciousness

zombie self -- clawing to be remembered.

I think too much,

and ask myself questions like

where do I begin? drunk on solipsism

and California wine. And don’t pretend

to act all cool like you don’t do it too.

You and I both know, in front of a mirror,

standing alone, naked,

we slick back our wet hair and make faces,

practice our reaction to the drudge ahead,

wide mouthed looks of surprise

and half-blinks, we try to live in slow-motion.

I can’t share your consciousness, but I practice

these contortions because I was born at twenty

then again at twenty-three,

neither times from fire or ash,

or with any great vengeance in my heart,

just a need to not remember.

So take me to be grounded,

into the soil

to cake my fingernails

and allow my flesh to be eaten green.

It is death death and rot

that I can dig out of the fertile earth

and emerge breathless, panicky,

positioned fetally in mud and rain,

laughing because I forgot yesterday.

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