24: part one of the Good People series

i’m 24
i do what i want
except for the time i sell to the kitchen
the grease traps
and the man.
except for the time i sell to my politics
all mewling infant things
with nowhere to put themselves
and i nurse them with
what i can
with what impassioned debate
i can scrape
from the bottom of some dirty pint glass
and the tail ends of cigarettes
i pawned books to buy

i’m working now
the way machines do all day
so i don’t know why i feel the right to complain
at least i get to cuddle with things and people
they just get oiled down every so often
it must shake their little love gears when they do
but they know they can’t do anything
this world’s not ready for
machine love

but i do complain
because i felt a little less
like less
when i was
hopping dumpster lips like
the little wiry hare i am
under all this human lie
i felt more true
when boredom and hunger
hit my stomach with the minute hand
for there is glory in that kind of filth

but there is glory also in this exhaustion
and the things i miss
i don’t know
but i hope i don’t
forget how clear it is to me now
what i really want
which is you
and air
and a little bit of time to think

all i know is i haven’t paid my dues yet
there are those that have worked their bones dry
they have ached their sweat into hours
the way we used to
ache tobacco out of ashtrays into stale rollies
to split between the five of us
scrounging souls

and all i’ve done is find the best way
to make enough money
to drink my cares away
all i’ve done is change the eternal diaper
on the ass of my underdeveloped ideas
and look around for something
that’ll kill me gracelessly
like tobacco
heroin
or anger

i’m 24
i don’t know shit
but neither do the good people
and at least i know that.