Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Two By Jeffrey Park


What if

and oh god that hurts,

god that smarts

on a scale of one to ten

definitely an eight and a half

and only that

What if, what ever,

because you never say ten

always leave room at

the top, what oh,

oh my tongue,

my splitting head

and the stitch in my side

What if,

what was it, what time were

we supposed to

be there, what happened

inside me

is happening inside you,

what now

What a joke you, we are

and the pain rises up again

like a great dark bird,

leaves eight and a half

far below

looks so small

down there.

What was and is and ever

shall or shall not be

for you, from me,

is the thing that lies

broken on the floor

What a day,

life, pain in the ass,

what again

what was it, where did I

leave it,

wherever did it go.


She walked out

on a Friday morning just

after breakfast,

shoes and poodle in tow,

spitting Hobbesian vituperations

between the sliding

elevator doors.

Inaccurately, it turned out.

Nasty and brutish and poor,

yes indeed.

Solitary - obviously.

But short?

Don't make me laugh.

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