A Waste of Time

Alright, well, I think I’m about to walk right into it with this post, but here I go anyway.  The thing of it is, I don’t really write poems, but sometimes a poem or poem-ish thing feels like it needs to come out, so then it’s there but I don’t really know what to make of it.  Bits and pieces of this were bouncing around in my head for weeks until it finally gelled into a poem.  At the third Papercuts I read it, and it seemed to get a pretty decent reaction.  The reason I’m posting it here, or a reason, is that it’s probably going to be part of one of those next issues I keep talking about, “It’s Like Heaven”.  It’s meant to follow the first story and some short stuff, and come before Roll With It.  The pieces together are meant to say something about how I feel about relationships at the moment.  So I guess I’m posting the issue backwards-ish.  The guy portraits I’ve been putting up occasionally might go at the end of the whole thing.  As for the poem I’m posting here, its position may change.  I liked it when I did it, more or less, and with a little bit of distance I’m not quite sure how I feel about it anymore.   Oh, and if anybody wants a bit of added intrigue, the guy that it’s (sorta) about is one of the drawings that I’ve posted.  I won’t confirm or deny any guesses about which one it might be, but have fun making them :)

“nothing there”

rick worley

a feeling of safety when i smell

your hair

a stab of excitement when i hold

your cock

an abscess in my composition when you’re not there

with me

you make me think of all

these things

and wish that i felt even one of them

there’s nothing wrong with you, not

exactly

you’re sweet and attentive

willing to take the burden of everything that’s fucked up with me

and it’s not small

and hardly ask for anything in

return

you always return my calls, reply to my texts quickly,

too quickly,

to be honest

you’re always there when i want to cum

and you let me do it

all over your chest, so

not saying you don’t have your good points.

you bought me that shirt, the book, the comics

that trip to florence

the yacht

it was thoughtful

but doesn’t change

much of anything

even when it really does make me wish that i could feel something

for you

besides an occasional sense of annoyance when there’s no room to

turn over in bed

i wish that i had some better reason for being

with you

than dregs of the lust that i’ve felt looking at other, prettier boys in the pages

of magazines

and the nagging, recurring thought, “who am i

to be choosy?”

if i could let go, i could just allow myself to enjoy having somebody

to go

to the grocery store with

for a change

to watch movies with, and report back to on the minutia of

the day

i know you would fill those roles, if

i let you

but i don’t think we could ever make it to that room with

summer sun

coming in from the open window,

blue and white

and salty skin

not dry yet

as we fall asleep, naked and lingering in the moment despite

the lack of necessity

because the moment is always there, it’s not leaving and

unchanging.

and i won’t find out, because I’m not going to try

instead i’m crouched, licking spilled milk off

the sidewalk

pigeon feathers in

my teeth

hunched over liquor and a moleskine

a portrait of Hemmingway

in crayola

i could say that “i’m just

not ready”

or that, “i need some time”

i could even say that, “it’s not you,

it’s me”

as much as anybody can say that with a straight face

it would be simple for me to vomit up

the platitudes

because god knows i’ve spent

enough time

drinking them, mixed with cranberry juice and in a

plastic cup

they taste like

unripened lime

but i still know that it’s not a matter of me

not wanting

it’s a matter of me not wanting

what you have

i know it like i know that the sun can burn

my eyes

like i know that tree bark feels rough in my hands,

and good

like i know that there is no god

like i know that w. bush is a

fucking retard

as much as i know

anything