Poetic Conversation, Poem 41.
You in the Future.
n. Just another human being, crafted from nothingness, looking for somethingness.
He was as American as the cigarette hanging from the corner of his lip, hand-rolled, flitting up & down whenever he spoke in that half-pursed, sideways gape. A tightrope feat, trying to control both the filter & the words that came out in smoke. He was ironic like a leather jacket in the middle of summer, aviator glasses taxiing the congested runways of L.A., land of the free to get fucked up. Who is the Surgeon General? A poet. He writes things like “nothing worth loving won’t kill you, at least a little bit.” That’s a paraphrase. The thing about poetry is that it’s open to interpretation.
You don’t have to get it.
There were girls too, lots of them, as far as the red-glare eye could see, all star-spangled & popping off like blank shells. They say that all that glitters isn’t gold, but he lived to see the sequins of last night’s outfit catching glints of morning sun, kiss the nicotine-stained fingers of lust, & leave before they became more than just a dream he was chasing.
To him, that’s what being American was. The pursuit, not the prize. The plan, not the product.