About Taking Punches
The afternoon flicks its lighter and the flame is gray as a squirrel.
This is Brooklyn.
The colorless land.
I see the ghosts inside out and the drained appreciation
Of their blood.
Frivolous has died and indifference smokes a cigar with boredom’s lips.
My shoulders get stuck when I shrug them.
I can’t get excited about the dance of mediocrity and indifference.
What can you say in favor of Brooklyn?
Walt Whitman once lived here.
He was a fag
Back when it was a demerit rather than an act of self-righteous rebellion.
What am I doing here?
I work as a trainer at Gleason’s Gym.
Some of my brain cells have died.
I am looking forward to a cemetery filled with failed bobs and weaves.
The artificial stooge is not as dumb as the natural reject.
I climb the pinecone to get at the tree.
How many times do I have to tell you that I love you
To make you go away?
I cup the ocean to see if my fingers will turn into squid.
I don’t know what you want from me because
I don’t know who you are.
I walk hand in hand with myself to try to get to know
Why I don’t like me.
Is it something I said?
A thoughtless deed that I did?
Or is it pretense so that I don’t get too attached to myself
And can’t let go when it’s time to die?