Saturday, March 5, 2011

There was time when I was sweet…

There was time when I was sweet…

When baby rabbits
would suckle
buttercup nectar
from my fingertips,

and bums would eat
fresh strawberries
right from my
outstretched palm.

But as I grew
to adolescence,
some imperceptible
thing changed.

A lonesome sadness,
was awakened,
and soon

the wild things
trusted me
no longer,

and I was left
with no choice but
to seek the company
of more domesticated

But the suburban
girls did not like me,
and their boyfriends
found me different
and strange.

Old folks seemed
to like me well enough,
but their condition
made me sadder, and

I sensed they liked me
only because,
I was like
one of them:


wandering placeless,
unwanted, as if
we reminded the others
of something inside
of them each
they hoped

our absence could
dispel, or in the least
displace for some
while near a lifetime;

so, unmolested
they could float
along upon
the current of
their illusion.

Finally, I swore
the elderly off.

I bought cool clothes,
started to talk
like a rapper.

I told everyone I met
I was born in jail

and that

I was the nigga that
really killed Tupac.

Eventually, I went
to business school,
earned an MBA,

dressed business chic,
leased a Bimmer,
a riverside loft
inside of which
I'd planned
to fuck hot models

and to eat
hot pie
with a
glass fork
I pleased.

And that is the story
of how I became
a cock.


  1. I'm a sucker for a happy ending!

    But for real, I truly liked the first 1/2 with it's open honesty and imagery, and now, while knowing where it's going, and liking how it contrasts with the second half, the end seems like a cop-out to me - probably because I was picturing you the whole time, and the guy at the end is nothing like the one I know,

    As a non-poet, I'm not sure if such a structure serves to highlight the opening lines and sort of showcase them in contrast to the closing ones, but now that i think about it, they probably do, so good job!

  2. Thanks man. You're probably right. I actually have this philosophy of poetry where the poem is a pliable thing. Like a jazz song you can play differently, depending on the gig, as it were. Maybe I tryout a few versions of this. See which feels most right.
    Obviously, in this case I was going for comedy, and at the risk of explaining too much, I tried to increase the impact of the "punchline" by injecting as much pathos as I could in the opening sections. Maybe too much pathos? Does it now overshadow the intended comedic effect so the reader feels cheated? This is interesting stuff. I'd like to hear more of your opinion on this. Cheers!

  3. i like the turnaround there but i think you can do better than "a cock"