My Back (a poem)

I've already nicknamed my computer room the Death Star because basically, I now have a fully operational Death Star of writing. It's great. I should have had one of these a long long time ago.

Anyhoo, while building said Death Star, one thing I've been doing is going through all my old writings be they old lists, tablature, old songs, poems or notes from the ladies of Hall High.

Most of the poetry so far has been complete rubbish, the kind of thing a late teen stoner would write. Here's one after I was just laid off from my prestigious position as an administrative assistant at The Corporate Source Group. A poetry professor of mine once taught us that we should never do preambles before our poetry, so I guess I'm going to stop now.

My Back (March, 2001)

It is sour to live,

job slowly being unscrewed,

the mechanical device

could soon fall apart.

And people do this five times,

drink coffee, smoke,

dress business casual

and collapse in a cubical.

Ain't been stress'd 'n awhile

and here I am again,

looking down from the ladder

with so many strangers

walking under it.

I want to suck the clouds

and spit them on these people

so they look up.

But I can't see ladders,

or glorious hot slides

to return me to a pop destination.

I hesitate

preparing for an action

that gets trapped in another person's

motion. I hear silence

from birds that are tired of flying.

It's beautiful how things come back,

like the rain after a drought,

like solid ghosts of kindness,

helping, showing me.

I need something metaphorical,

a building to implode,

a unique front pulling over the city,

the proper twist within the perfect

plot and setting.