I guess I put intimacy before frivolity.
I’ve always been like that. There’s this
picture of my grandparents holding me
in their backyard by the blueberry bushes
when I was like 1, and they are the
happiest people on Earth, and the look on my baby face
resembles that of a judge having just
heard the details of a grisly homicide
from the prosecution, a judge who is
gearing up to ask the defendant what
murdering someone gives them, personally.
And whenever I see people on television
dancing on some beach somewhere I
picture myself there, walking through
a jungle of mostly naked twerking and
crumping only to stop and ask someone
who’s out of breath what they want
from all this. It’s just fun they say, and I
usually reply by fantasizing a sarcastic
comment about how wonderful it must
feel to become a kind of prostitute
that can’t buy their own shit and has
to run in place to escape becoming
oneself. What can I say, it’s a gift, I tell
them, in my head, while they look at
me as though I’ve just molested their
dog.
I suppose I just want boredom to feel
like a trip to the Maldives, want desire
to stop dancing on the sand of eternal
youth and be honest. Against procreation,
the future, and the never-ending escape
of gyration, I need to know it’s possible
to be nothing, do nothing, and make
nothing, and still be something worth
taking your clothes off for.
My Poety Place 