I Am In The Wrong Sort of Place

I
Halfway thru October
And fog’s swallowed everything
Lonely granite archways
Square heads of buildings
The whole mass mess of brick
Gray and unfamiliar

They said I’d do well here
I saw myself kicking ladders
Once I had reached the roof
I knew I could remember names
I knew my hands were strong
And able to clasp the hands of others
I placed myself at the end of the race
Imagined mountains of cake
Streamers of delectable colors
I was willing and aching to win, win, win

I had gotten it wrong

II
Prowling prisoner!
By radio stations
Beneath dull rows of light-bulbs
The prisoner prowls
In his p.j’s and robe
He prowls the bathroom
Wiping down the tiles
Peering and scowling
Down the hallway
Piercing the quiet
With his muffled tones,
The prowling prisoner!
He could go anywhere
He’d like to
But he roams nearby
Always lost
In a useless thought
Prowling around
Cemeteries
Perched beneath
Oak branches
Lighting up
The prowling prisoner
Has given up!

III
What sort of hell
Charges you 50,000 a year

Offers you free meals
Which in reality are a part

Of that 50,000 I mentioned earlier
Provides your rickety bed

Tousles your hair
Says “Chin up, be grateful,

Buy more of our thick books.”
Screams at you when you arrive

Closes off in private circles
Creates purple rings

Under your thin, yellow eyes
Brings in guest speakers

To speak of life after hell
Stirs you from a summer dream

To stare at a white screen
Tells you how to get better

Promises that you’ll get better
Puts no such promise in writing

IV
I fluttered stupid as a moth
Felt wings rested on my knotted back
Washy-eyed flying drunkenly
In figure-eights around a traffic light

Sometimes I expect myself to be hit
By a car dropping beats on my chest
I imagine myself crumpled
I imagine my wings starting to unfold

V
Forget me
I’m sandbox skeleton serious
Stay away
It’s a matter of health
In my mind you’re frail
And I often swing wildly
I’m hiding
Some still see me
Some still wave
And stop their routine
And ask how it’s going
I pull out my script
I’m not subtle
Don’t approach me
I’m keeping myself
In the past
I’m severely displaced
Swimming in tar
The blood and cum
Of the grey city
That once tasted sweet
I walk Stuart Street
With nowhere to go
By the fountain
I decide to go back
To nowhere in particular
When I lie down
I feel dead and old
Don’t try to make me young
Don’t write to me
Don’t call
My phone is dying
I won’t save it
I have declared the Internet
My enemy
It’s not politics or anything
It’s a matter of not existing