september 13th, 2009

This is an older poem I wrote on the night of my 18th birthday, crouched over a legal pad in my room around two in the morning.  It was the first time I felt the need to write and I have not questioned it since.

the first poem I ever wrote



Pupkin for three I said.  The hostess looked up from her reservation book and into my eyes.  I was fixated.  We began to work together; planning, scheming, brewing up plans of destruction, plans of immortality.  I followed her to the table convinced I could marry her, fuck her, touch her, complete her, make up for everything she lacked, provide her everything she needed.  I imagined us as newlyweds; giddy and sexual, throwing our inhibitions out of the hotel window, room service attendants bringing us breakfast in bed.  Us, together.  Dining by candlelight, expensive champagne and half-eaten appetizers.  So innocent, so naïve.  Tremendously caught in an instant, a frame of life, a mere splice.  Rich deserts with two spoons, holding hands instinctively, oblivious to doubt and defeat.



She handed me the menu as I sat down at the table, one minute older.