I don't know how else to posture
myself against these notions
of adulthood except to say
I am nothing but posturing.
All the books in my house
lean toward one another
like they are waiting to be
excised from a more monstrous
thing. I've learned you can
drag your body around but
unless you take instruction
from your bones it's a pretty
disappointing ride. How about
I mimic the oncoming weather
or better yet make a small
noise for all the days I
have stayed inside. If I am
straying too far I do apologize
for confusing the herd.
I'm afraid I have lost my
ethical compass and in exchange
I see myself as I really am.
I feel like punching my way
through a reservoir.
Everyone I know takes
more pictures with books
than with people and I'm
starting to believe we make
the world we fell into.
I know I think too much
about cruelty. Again
and again the advice I
receive is to stick my face
in a fountain to understand
how real that feeling is.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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