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At 36 |
I am afraid I humble myself too much, and I won’t try anything.
If the self-help books worked, they would stop selling. The problem
with Capitalism: the solution enforces the problem. I need
love, love, love.
I have nothing to talk about. Type in my office, and pretend
I have somewhere to go nights. I just lose myself in the treadmill.
Who was it said time heals all wounds?
An aborted fetus, if so desired, continues to grow. Addition by subtraction. Who is
there at my door. The crosswind summer respite keeps me up winter nights. I tell it
there’s no crying in contemporary poetry.
Just things bubbling up from the void. A hare yesterday, a stone today.
My spider friend dangles over my head while my cats fantasize mice.
I should lick the walls just to have a taste in my mouth. Somewhere tonight someone
is being murdered.
I am stint stunted. My fingers good for typing, not for dialing. Water puddled. A
boxer stranded in his corner. Stun by the inability to ask,
now what? And would have more to say to her than I to myself?
Come now Carlos, lost in treadmill? Can’t find the "on" button.
Preventive smoking
for when you don’t want to
put up with this too long. Emma B. Llanos
had enough at 67, dropped to her kitchen floor,
and counted to eternity. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
all good children go to heaven.
And this little piggy, according to the Vietnamese calendar,
went to the market. At 36,
addicted to weightlifting and weeds. Would like to get hooked on ‘roids to
bulk up and justify my rage. Or at least impress someone. I have the body of a six
pack
drinking couch potato.
Hitler was a vegetarian, but I don’t do whitey. Never heard one say
I act white.
Dominican diet won’t let me diet or stray. I like my plate like I like my woman,
with lots of meat. Don’t want to keep this going forever, you know.
I just write, like I work out,
to keep from killing me or you.
copyright 2008
Carlos
Hiraldo |
