I'm sorry, I just
blacked-out, misspelled
that word, grossed
you out with my mouth
full of food, bored
the room full of 'friends'
to tears with my vocal renditions
of the difference between
punk and New Wave.
I heart the autumn,
but summer rules!
'Love ya! See ya next year! '
Me: Best All Around
in my fake silk shirt
with wankin' collar points,
my feathered hair,
the vacuous stare.
Me of the flared pants
who cared what people thought.
Me of the Chi Chi set.
It's all a faded novel-
my past. A tiny street
where no cars pass,
not even my brother's
bitchin' pick-up truck
with the silver license plate frame
that reads: Gas, Grass, or Ass-
No one rides for free.
I've said too much.
Sometimes I'm so happy
I could scream: then
I fall to the floor in tears.
'Sometimes I love being poor'
a friend writes that I said that,
but what about leaves?
Briliant dying sails
this time of year.
I won't admit to picking
out those hideous blue
curtains with sailing ships,
maps and compasses
(I was young) , and besides,
there is no fall where
I'm from, only sun-
light so alarming & constant
(like a wind-up clock) -even
the nights were bright.
The stars fifty miles away
made a life devoid of all glamour
semi-bearable, in jr. high,
in the '80s, in the dark corners
of my slowly blackening mind.
Jeffery Conway
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jeffery-conway/
