I look at a freaking freckle
Seemingly like the teenage years. The armpit
Odor still smells the same
And the heart dances to what the eyes
Sponge – the goddesses that become
Muses of desire.
We never really outgrow the teenage spirit.
Touching 40 and still the occasional window shopper
With absolutely no ambition
To start a conversation with the Banker chick
At a cocktail party, or make conversation
With a nerdy English student
Who looks a lot like a divine nerdess.
And I look at my baggy khaki shorts
With knee pockets – how that hasn’t
Changed in 20 years. I look at my logo-less
T-shirts and I remember a girl at Alliance
Who I wanted to strike a conversation with
When I was spring chicken. I look
At myself to see a fat man who has outgrown
The fresh face, the dappled pimples
And blushing cheeks that only
Know 50 shameless shades of red.
It seems we are in a rut
In a groundhog day, of when life
Metamorphosed to an airy world
From inside a childish cocoon. Wings
Although gossamer and tear-prone
Could hang us in the air, like hot-air balloons
Fired from a flame that was no longer
A vestal silhouette.
Perhaps life is that. If I can tell Kurt Cobain
That it always smells like teen spirit,
I would. One day, even battling my own breath
I will remember the tall girl with a shawl
Who made me wade into an ocean
That never closes in on shrink.
I look at my salted memories of 20 years
And I know I’ve had a good life. A life
That never ceases to surprise or amaze
Nor clip your wings. Dreams were never
Meant to be hanged, closeted or drawered,
They were the wings of a bird man
Who battled the windy bursts of fate
To come out with an education.
Icarus was a fool. So am I.
A fool that knows that the blinding light
Is too, a torch of burn. And still how beautiful
Is the blinding light fogging the lens and demanding
The unblemished. My 20 culpable years
Of folly, scaling the wing-brokered
Heights of a foolish dream.