recoveringmale

sigh. poetry day is here again...

they say you can write your way out of anything. they neglect to say you can write your way further into the mire just as easily...

for a few years now i have hated the idea of writing any poetry. felt i'd lost the ability to be honest with myself. i remember years ago i wrote lots of bad stuff, but it was unselfconscious bad stuff at least. no more. i would just despise whatever came out, and so on. don't care to make sweeping uplifting simplistic statements, nor wallow in self-pity. the burden of wasted years brought back by a few hours lost.


those girls we followed home.

in junior high the two prettiest girls were
Irene and Louise,
they were sisters;
Irene was a year older, a little taller
but it was difficult to choose between
them;
they were not only pretty but they were
astonishingly beautiful
so beautiful
that the boys stayed away from them;
they were terrified of Irene and
Louise
who weren't aloof at all;
even friendlier than most
but
who seemed to dress a bit
differently than the other girls;
they always wore high heels'
silk stockings,
blouses,
skirts,
new outfits
each day;
and
one afternoon
my buddy, Baldy, and i followed them
home from school;
you see, we were kind of
the bad guys on the grounds
so it was
more or less
expected,
and
it was something:
walking along ten or twelve feet behind them;
we didnt say anything
we just followed
watching
their voluptuous swaying,
the balance of the
haunches.

we liked it so much that we
followed them home from school
every
day.

when they'd go into their house
we'd stand outside on the sidewalk
smoking cigarettes and talking.

"someday" I told Baldy.
"they are going to invite us inside their
house and they are going to
fuck us."

"you really think so?"

"sure."

now
50 years later
I can tell you
they never did
-never mind all the stories we
told the guys;
yes, it's a dream that
keeps you going
then and
now.

~Charles Bukowski