Given a thousand years to become great
I don’t know if I ever will be
Hope, ticks away, like time, running out
I tick-off people,
complaining about it. “You’re sucking my blood!” They scream.
“Why am I not great?” I ask.
like a guru, who promised to see me,
but he has car trouble,
or a demanding wife,
or a weak body due to excessive fasting, (or is it farting? I don’t know). Anyway, it slows him down, and we don’t meet.
People who write poetry are barking mad
I used to be so normal
but my desire for abnormality
My get-up and go has been limited
because I don’t know where to go.
A poet can write a million words in a mental institution
banging-out the letters of the alphabet
while he learns Greek, but he’s still in an institution.
The passage of time,
I remember key moments in my life, as if they were yesterday
I don’t know why, but they were snapshots
Pictures, I hid inside my mind
short videos, of seemingly no significance.
I was in biology class and we were watching Patch Adams.
Our teacher was 24 and he went on to become a medical doctor.
Strange, he seemed so old then
when I was so young
and now, I’m 35
19 was a lifetime ago.
It was my Senior Year—two weeks before the end of our regular school year
and after graduation I wouldn’t have to come back.
“We’re going to finish-up Patch Adams in the last week of school,” our teacher said.
“I’ll come back for that,” I replied.
“You’re crazy. When you’re done with high school, you’re done,” he said.
“I’m coming back.”
I never did, and unlike many kids who visited
after getting normal jobs
the thought of returning made me sick.
That summer, I told my mother, I wasn’t going to college—
that I was going to play golf professionally
and she told me, “You can move out!”
I never did.
Then, after 10 years of higher education
I decided to become a writer,
I’ve been doing that,