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I am an old man,


with more living before me than makes sense in my mind.


Because, I am a young girl,


with a gapping holy fate.


There is a young boy, he asks, “dinner at eight?”


Oh, I can’t stand a question that props itself up


on my living before me—tomorrow’s tuning fork struck.


But such noise can’t be heard in my head’s heart’s cracked muck.


It does not feel fine.


The words that are tilling, they do not feel mine.


It feels like cold burlap is ripping my spine.


My curled, pressed old spine.  


I am an old man,


With more sprawled palms before me than make sense in my mind.


Because, I am a young girl,


with a smooth lighted face.


My mother suggests, “You should run this road race.”


Oh, I want to be breathed on by human-sweat dew,


sharp shivering air, young legs jumping the pew.


But I can’t bear the precision.


It does not feel fine.


The limbs that are churning, they do not feel mine.


It feels like cold jellies are clumping my hair.           


My thin, white old hair.


I am an old man,


With fewer years behind me than make sense in my mind.


Smaller portions of living than feelings I find.


Daintier feet than would carry my heavyset rind.


A slender physique, no more matched to my kind.  


I am an old man.


Ah, but, even with that, it feels like a dream.


Like an endearing confusion, a lovely obscene.


To be honest with you (as I am not with most)


I am not an old man,


I am not an old ghost.


I am not a young girl,


I am not a young boy.


I am wicked, and loving, and toying with joy.


I am verbose to the point where they wonder “how long?”


I am abstract to the realm where I’m speaking in song


I am distant, and clammy, and racking with pain


I am picky, and flighty, and laugh in the rain


I am peeling, and covered, and woefully sane


I am hollow, and teeming, and leaking straight through


(There is no one around, so I’ve furrowed my brow)


Ha! Now I’ve made like I’m you.

Created: Jan 23, 2012

Tags: a poem i guess

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