A poem!

I thought it would say “Wash me!”

Because I had to think It would say something

And the sky is blue and as cold as a popsicle.  (I am reliably informed that popsicles are that cold.)

It said, “Only if you get here first.”  I had so many questions, so fast, like a woman pumped full of fertility drugs.

What will happen if you get here first?  Why do you have to get here first for it to happen?  Why are we meeting behind an SUV?

Who are you?  Who am I?  (Oh right.  That one’s easier than people think.)

Can’t let the questions show, not amongst the pillars lurking gray and sullen and lazy — “But they hold the roof up!”  I still think that they could do more.  Punks.

Little black, bleaming warts on the ceiling that watch and don’t blink.  Throw your bag of bad food away and hurry out of my bowels, there’s a good little workilicon.  That food’s mine now.

This notebook is unsuited to your current task.  Cry and beat your chest and fuck your co-workers, but KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

I’ll feel better in the morning/afternoon/morning

I’ll be Jonah taunting the whale.  But only if you get here first.

I can’t imagine anything out of its place / Indexed and cross-referenced

We’ve got our own paper You so you can count cat turds for all we care!

 

But we’re all still here.  We’re all still alive.

There

Must

Be

Riot and life and childish selfishness and fucking and play and insults and bruises and druuuuugs, if you can stomach them.

Sex and irresponsibility

And the absurdity of a sports bra under a lab coat.

An affair?  An appointment to get high?  Only if you get here first.