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I'm a poet and I didn't even know that I am one.

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I Will [May. 18th, 2003|05:00 pm]
I'm a poet and I didn't even know that I am one.
[this mood swings toward |quiet]
[this moment's theme song |"Heroin" -Velvet Underground]

Tomorrow, I will go to the store. I'll buy three slightly green bananas and four red apples, a gallon of milk and a jar of Jiffy peanut butter. I’ll buy a new mop and some more dishwashing soap, and I’ll pick up razor blade refills, the kind my brother uses now that he’s not growing his beard out. He likes Gillette best. Says they look cool even if they do nick him a lot. I think he just has shaky hands.

In two days, I will make a fruit salad. I'll cut up my bananas and apples and add three tablespoons of peanut butter, and I will mix it all together in a big blue porcelain bowl. I will pour myself a tall, cool glass of skim milk and watch Saved by the Bell reruns at noon. Later, I will carefully place my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, fill the soap dispenser, and listen to the machine growl. I will listen closely to hear life's secrets in its inane rumblings, and will be disappointed in the nothingness that meets my ears. I will take my mop and swipe across the kitchen floor with broad strokes. I will miss spots and not care that that black stain by the oven won't come up.

In three days, I will wake up early and watch the sun rise. I'll watch stars fade and wonder why no one else hears their silent screams of farewell. I'll breathe in the sweet smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen of the apartment below mine, mixed in with cigarette smoke as the man in the apartment across from mine puffs slowly, not realizing I can see inside his robe from this angle. I will slide open the screen door, walk inside, and slide it closed again without ever taking my eyes off of his ignorant nudity. The kitchen tiles will be cold on my bare feet, but not as cold as the bathroom tiles. The bathroom tiles are black and white. I'll stare at them and remember the old joke; "What's black and white and red all over?" and I'll think, "It isn't yet." I will not look in the mirror as I take the razor blade refills out of their green and black packaging. I will press one against my bare skin and my hands will not be shaking.

[User Picture]From: montanaspoetry
2003-06-07 09:37 pm (UTC)
sits in quiet contemplation
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