beaten, but not into submission


waiting for the next attack on whatever is left

of my sanity 

to see if i will muster 

one last blitzkrieg, go kamikaze or shatter after

another tap on cracked glass.  the final weapon and defense

has been poisoned, turned atomic.  radioactivity

from magazines, men, women, and t.v’s advertising

the woman i’m suppose to be

that i will never be,

pushing into the back of my brain.  



summon up 

incandescent antipathy.

	

	am i a survivor?

	just because i’m still alive after being fucked and fucked and fucked.

skin so thick  

you can cut right through it.

	is that what this is called? 

		hiding from the past, present, 

		a future which promises nothing

			but more of the same.

			knowing this

			i’m suppose to 

			what?...get over it

			by committing emotional suicide

			or confessing and admitting

				until the things themselves become

				obscure and meaningless?

			(both of which are high trends of the day).

			i might as well just give it up for free.

				my admittance is my submittance.

					what is one more

				        sleepless night to me?





yes.

i will go all the way till the end,

	which you can be assure of.

at every second praying i never take 

my life seriously.


 


 

looking for someone for nothing



home alone again at three am

on saturday night.  dialed up-

turned on my warm and glowing computer

for a one night 

pretenda-friend.

this one,

he lived

on the other side of the country

but promised that i could come and sleep

on his floor  

whenever the need presented itself.

	of course there were stipulations

	rules, regulations such as 

		doing

		my own dishes.

		douching

		if we engaged in some awkward act of 

		coitus.

			commanding me beforehand...

			stay silent 

			don’t move

			expect any warmth, cuddling

			or lust spelled wrong.

				although

			i had been sober 

			to long to know

			what he was talking about.

expectations broke down. 

forever could mean

don’t beat me too often.

please have the minimal

iq of a 4th grader. don’t

have some dreams

of becoming the lone ranger

or a drug dealer.  anything but 

trying to be a

hard ass off the mean streets

of wyoming.  but if it comes down to it, 

anything is better than having do deal with someone

who thinks they’re

culturally

important. 

	as hard as i try 

	i can’t escape the reality that

	no one is gonna save me

	from a future that

	i must write myself.