Friday, September 09, 2011

somewhere in the east

it figures.

right?

the long slow
damaging ride pulls
into the driveway.

what once sang of will
and then pride
and then defiance
and then wash out

metered out only
in vague passion
not unlike denial,
tired and incapable.

T.S. Elliot was right.
James Joyce was right.
Lou Reed was right.
my guidance counselor was right.

even if there was time,
well lit boundaries and
phone calls answered right away.
even if there were you.

"will" is no longer
an engine. no more propulsion.
hardly a sputter. froze up
and quiet.

Walt Whitman was wrong.
he is very understood
and he was never beneath my feet,
waiting somewhere vainly.