“Too wild for too long,”
He said to himself while standing in line
Clutching a cell phone and feeling frumpy.
Ruminating on Steven Tyler
And all those confused football players
Pacing in the midst of a bungle, he asked:
“Is this what it is to bungle?”
Had he dutifully painted down the pipe
Too far, and so long, that it was a dream?
He did not mind backtracking through paint.
He did not fear smudging a seamless coat.
(Which are very boring and expensive.)
The last feat of maturation could very well be
Walking all over this accidental portrait of self:
The mere unintended consequence of a new
And hyperbolic $5 DVD-bin of individualism
That was only allotted and affordable due to
Pomp, circumstance, and the Internet.
Bare language of effort, process, and ends
Had left him frumpily clutching a cell phone
In a poly-blend sweater made for grandmas
Homely containing the ecstatic and abstract.
For Steven Tyler singing the national anthem
In rags was confusing all those football players
Who seemed well-versed in the language of things:
Men meeting in the middle and letting them speak.
It was not a shame for lack of things
But a lack of verse in their language:
How to put your best Northface forward?
How to meet the world in the middle
Like the Bowflex man hanging at Mass
So tired, so ripped, and already there?
Leaving the bank,
He punched out Peter Pan
And called him dickless.
(They’d never gotten along well.)
He waded through the bushes,
And back into the street drain
Now intent on exiting
From the front door,
Walking over himself
Throughout the pipe
Toward the light
To huff the Ether
But not the paint