Hunched over,

Bent and Brooding

About what? I'll see

What to bring

But there's nothing more that I can't find

I'm sorry to myself for saying sorry to myself in a reflection

The Chicago Skyline projected sideways over a magenta night sky

Light-Polluted

Not Light-Pollution.

But I'm the oxymoron.

I'm the hobbit with the confidence.

I'm the one who runs around in his mind painting circles.

Purple circles with this Big Viscous Paint.

It bubbles and the bubbles dry in it's self.

It's about a quarter inch thick when it's dry.

From an ant's view...

Well they see this Purple Python snaking across the dusty linoleum floors of a boy's brain.

A gymnasium...where heavy-set children in thick cotton white-tee shirts and blue cotten shorts

Dribble my basketball Ideas.

I shoot, the hoop not much larger than the ball...

My inner right arm and the left side of my neck hot with sweat...

No idea is ever a 'slam dunk'.

I miss her and my conception of her...

Which matured as we grew distant...

All of them, all of those innocent embers of desire...

Smoldering in some primitive depths in my skull...

A cave even...A cave with Cro-Magnon's roasting flanks of Mastodon Meat

Over them...

Because my childish Wants I'm much too grown out of now...

Much more mature.

Everything there is to know, I've either learned it or wouldn't have a problem understanding it.

Yes indeed.

Yet I'm just knowing and being a few molecules on the outermost edge

Of The Vast Expanse of The Universe of Knowlege and Being...

That is our perception and introspection.

Not our self projection.

Never are we entirely who we want to be.

Never is that seen by others, despite our efforts...

Especially when we think it's working...

That they see past the short-wisp-jew...

An androgynous Anne Frank

Who writes in diaries.

But I'm alright.

I've got my pen I've got my paper I've got my few molecules

Of knowing and Being

On the outermost edge

Of the vastness that is The Universe of Knowledge and Being...

Hopefully I see past this step on my staircase of my life

Where I type on my computer---A once-white keyboard

Dirtied by hairy palms...

Typing away droning Nothings.

Onto a screen.

A pathetic attempt at being bold and deep.

But I write these disparities to put myself at ease.

For the doubt that rests on my shoulder reaffirming me.

That I'm set for stardom and proliferation and a fulfilling life.

Ayn Rand sneaks up on me, and I understand her point of view.

But nothing I've written still has not made myself my favorite author.

And I thought 'Fountainhead' wasn't my favorite either...

Writing this on an unremarkable night in the summer between High School and College.

It should be a time of fulfillment and planning and sex.

Sex. Where is this in my existence?

I don't have the molecules of knowing and being in terms of sex...

I know none of it

I haven't been...

With another

In that Act that I put up with myself I see kernels of though popping

Kernels of exploding doubt that reassures me...

That I am attractive enough to spring a mate.

I am just a penguin drifting off on a broken iceberg fragment

Away from my family,

Alone,

Smoothing my suit-skin coat

With the crook of my wing in a mirror.

My desmise is woeful,

But I still look so Damn Good.