I feel like a paper man.
I have a passion for cigarettes and origami, but the problem is I keep burning all of my square chunks. Those are the rolled-up pieces of me that I drag on and the smoke of my burning self fills my god-forsaken flat-as-ash lungs. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly manic, I fold and fold until the edges of me are indistinguishable from the sides, and the sides from the front, and the front from a crane. These are the sweetest drug I know: filled with a toxic blend of self-loathing and as-it-were-egotistical-masochism disguised as megalomania of the richest kind, a Cuban cigar of constructed lies and me-angles protruding from a two-dimensional mouth.
And I am no one-note-or-trick-pony. I am two-dimensions, as wide as I am tall and as flat as I am thick. From the front, you almost can't tell I'm not real.
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Tonight, I hyphenate as an art-form.
ReplyDelete"From the front, you almost can't tell I'm not real."
ReplyDeleteStory of my life.
Oh, Robby. I mean, so much of this proves it's art and not you but then so much of it is real enough that it has to come from somewhere, and that is heartbreaking.
I realize this, too, shall pass, but all I want is for it never to have existed, character-building though it may be.
Have you tried tossing an apple from hand to hand? It just feels really nice.
Sometimes hyphenation is a must-have.
ReplyDeleteI'm beginning to love this poem thing.
ReplyDeleteI wrote this poem when I was student teaching, I think, at the Adventist middle school in Collegedale. I was still falling for Delight at the time, if I remember things correctly.
ReplyDeleteTime is a taskmistress to whose lash I do not fall, and yet her weals never grow less tender except that I forget them.