Jack K.

 

When it was summer

 

and you missed winter
And my feet always smelled like grass,
And the only time you and I could ever
climb up on my roof
was something like four in the morning
Because that was about

when it was too early to get sunburned,
 And late enough for me to be

stoned and sick of reading
all of your favorite conspiracy theories
and all either of us really wanted was
to watch the sun rise, because God,

we were so sick of sunsets.

And I was always hungry
And you mostly just missed snow
Snowstorms, snow days, and artificial heat.
(and I missed the smell of dead leaves, football, and your mom's favorite turkey dinner table cloth)
-I also missed the weather being cold enough to take a comfortable shower, and not finding spiders in my brother's basement when I stayed there on weekends-
But I only ever mentioned the first part,
Because you would go into how I take too long of showers,
and how my brother treats you like an a*****e.

Even though I know for a fact you both bonded over
Cormac McCarthy books, and bands from San Francisco,
and how bad you both but hate the summer olympics and sammy hagar.

Anyways,
When it was summer
and I was always hungry
and we both hated the weather
except for at about four in the morning

when  I liked to tell you about how much

I'm in love with this place

This town too small for either of us

and these people who eat too much

and have incredibly bad taste,

and...

You told me something, I think,

That I could understand

which was to say:

That in a place so little and empty and ugly as this
all we would ever find were secure, bored people.
And according to you those are the worst kind of people

and then you went on to say
how much you wished you could find a place,

where futures weren't so secure.

 

you wished you could find people that
weren't so washed up and reused.

 

You wanted

the sort of people
who scorched the suburban, american sidewalks
with their heat.
The kind of people who have streaks to maintain.
And who don't believe in small
talk
or commonplace things,

or Christmas.

 

And who's words, would shoot through your soul

like heroin.

 

I remember that.

 

You said, that for the most part,

you were sick of the way that

everyone we know, do what they

do,

instead of something they want to do

more.

 

You were fantastically sick

of the people who mistake numb

for real, and repression

for progression

and

who's problems could be solved

with coffee and cable

and who never manage

to get past small talk

and motherfucking

love

Christmas.

 

 

Reviews

[Legion]

"And who's words, would shoot through your soul

like heroin." - wonderful thought. got a spoon?

I like to wander through people's stuff sometimes and I am so glad that I wandered into the mindfield you have created here. This is spectacularly done. An homage of what it means to actually live. To actually want to live. Brilliant. Simply brilliant. Kudos of this badge of honour. Going in my favorites.

[Wildecat]

Lots of raw emotion in this well crafted poem. A pleasure to read your poetry.