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Luke Warm

“Look, worm—”
“You want to see me squirm?”
“I don’t see how you expect
mediocrity to impose
success with out
resorting to regress. Do you understand?”
“I can’t.”
“Yeah you can. Just do something about it. Quit
being a pain in the proverbial
asset, that of which you don’t have, because
you can’t be bold, you can’t
choose between
hot or cold.”
“I already told you,
I’m not ready for a huge
Step. I’m just … right in the middle.”
“Don’t meddle. Don’t whine.
Do something but sit and scratch your spine.”
“What do you propose I do? No matter what I do
I always seem to dispose, you might as well
crumble me and drain me down the disposal
of pointlessness.”
“You piddle on me.
“But at least I see you
going a certain way. At least I see you
being someone other than just a
worthless bit of
garble in age.
In our age.
Just act your age,
and maybe you can expect something to go somewhere instead of just whining as though you really think you have the right to be someone you aren’t, someone who just sits there hoping that he will magically move steam out of itself while shaking from the cold. You can’t walk that line because life is a tight rope, and if you go one way at least you will fall that way, and that fall will force you to either look up or down, instead of balancing there like you’re bored, like you can’t do anything but watch yourself without watching yourself, without taking that acrobatic leap.
Look at it as though
you’re at the home
plate, all is on the line, if you bat
far enough you’ll win, but if you cheat a bit
and pretend to be something you aren’t for just a little
bit, and confuse them like crazy,
pretend to reach for the atom
instead of the stars
I suppose … where,
you barely hit it so it flirts with the foul line, and now I’m being
a hypocrite because I really don’t want you to do that, just …
foul the player with the voice or the fists, but
pick one, don’t just pick
your nose, with a dirty tooth
pick, decayed, that of which seems to reside in
brown nosing, with their sandy
buttes up in your space, in your
area, battering your formation
with stinky cracks. Stacking
their weight on you as you worship them
with jealous hate. Is that what you want?
Or are you going to lift them up?
Or are you going to run?”
Luke looks at himself
wishing he could break that mirror.
Or hug it. He wasn’t sure which one.
But at least now he knew where he was going, thanks to
the pep talk and the pep club he now noticed.

23 May 07

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this poem is far too energetic and unserious for my liking, but any response would be ... liked.
 — listen

this is too personal/stream of counciousness  for an objective reader to become attached.

 — unknown

very true. ouch.

but thank you.
 — listen

and, too long for a poem about nothing.
 — listen

why the space between with, out in l5?

this is wonderful. i didn't think it was long at all.
well broken lines and good conversation. i like that the worm is like a mirror.
chomsky says 'after all, we are always only talking to ourselves'. which i find incredibly true.
this wonderful, listen. i loved it.
i get your drift, yes.
 — varun

hahahaha amazing.
good midnight poem.
 — midare

thanks for taking the time to read this. you give valuable encouragement. (much like your writing.)
 — listen