The Colossus of  Inebrio

bereaved possibilities present themselves in sparse detail
i wander inside, and about, the misunderstood compactness
of an all too altered dream – where can we go from here
when irony has become a buzzword at the age of fifty

perhaps it’s just the day, the time at hand – vocabulary’s lost
in a trenched mouth smell of non-sequential logic – a past
is no more than a stereotype if we choose to see the truth
there’s a “rapness” abounding in my soul – my consciousness

let it come forth

                          I

in a crustacean world there’s a seine , see,
i mean the young and restless are what
i’m about in a ritualed existence – there’s
victor, nikki, nick., victoria, ms. chancellor
and jill who’s obviously going to run sean away
and CHRIST!   she needs a fuck more than anyone
i know – it’s been like two and a half years 
since she went to the hotel and got the price down
you know what i mean – one for the gipper as it were
but she wound up engaged to the guy – gimme a break

                         II

nocturnal drunken, almost, ephemera beginning to set in
there’s music in the magazine, yes, but will i be sober
enough to change it out – doubtful, i know, but worth
considering in postulated reverence – there was a time
i was energetic – now, i have to force the learn – have to
wring the shit somehow out of me in a manner of recognition
that i was there in the old days and you have the right to be

frustration is a cliché – knowledge is a total disadvantage
the visions are warming now – let them breathe in time spent
i was 34 in class at a major university – an english major
in another life – studying what we once called “arithmetic”
the prof was a german guy – dogmatism, you come from germany

“how old are you now”  

“34”

“well, your mind won’t work as quickly as it used to”

and i pause and think

“who are you – you old motherfucker
you know nothing about me, about my mind
i’ve figured it out twice
once at 20 and again at 32”

i made a B in the course, worked my ass off
but that’s another story – couldn’t stay out
of the fucking library, having been away so long
read my first ferlinghetti biop – which means 
nothing (except to me) – ya gotta stay true to the origins

 

 
     Carter Monroe lives, works, and writes in the provinces. His novel, Journey, was published in January 2001. He participated in a conspiratorial effort with Robert Canipe and Tim Peeler entitled Writers on the Storm. Both of these books can be purchased at most major book chains as well as the traditional internet outlets. Recent poems and stories have appeared in Poems Niederngasse, Poethia, Third Lung Review, Thunder Sandwich, The Americana Poetry Consortium, Lost and Found Times, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.

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