Ritual predates speech.
he sits at the exact same spot
all semester. I play coy,
but he turns and says
that I might as well please myself
because someone’s gonna get it eventually
and I don’t look like the kind
to wait for a rainy day
This is when I contradict him
au contraire I say
I’m not one for sun and flesh
and german decadence
I’m waiting to pounce on a sure thing
it only looks as like it as damn it
But like an artificial flower stuck
in time-lapse photography
I’ve been waiting for a long time to bloom
I get less action than a condom machine
in a convent. What can I say?
I try too hard to be Mr. Righteous
a coward at the eye of god
like Big Brother is watching
with the compounded vision of an insect
and giving me the evil eye a million times
A colon and a parenthesis make for a sad face
and I’ve always been a sucker for punctuation
so maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put an end
to waiting for a less-than sign with a three
and bloom for any bumblebee with seed to spread
And maybe then I can finally couple
an end-parenthesis with a colon
give in to my prehistoric roots
jump the trigger and pounce
make my own rainy days
and stop singing such sad sad torch songs
EDIT: I may or may not have taken the poem's advice last night. Details to follow when I'm good and ready. And I recover from the clandestine sexual hedonism.
