You are a failed teacher,
a tight pony-tailed,
tight faded rock t-shirted brooder.
An unencoded cipher.
An old puzzle,
key connectors lost in cushions,
in babies bellies.
A tattooed, pierced wannabe pirate,
on the bus home from his day job
stacking shelves at Urban Outfitters.
And I am just another Johnny,
swaying to the Internet’s incidental music,
Eno’s heirs, the ones who missed the point,
pho-weeping in my ears.
Just some guy
in a semi-proper suit,
discount off-the-rack, but
self-shined square toes,
monkeys flying, paralleling the bus,
they’re making that hostile eye contact with me
that strange new kids get on the playground,
that way they greet a threat –
that secret code still embedded in our DNA,
to crush the skull of the interloper…
the kids are closer to the ground,
to the old tribes…
they’re scudding past me now,
no threat here…
now they’re leering at the serious girl in funky glasses
clutching her HD display,
so serious about her Tao Lin.
Or was it the latest Pilgrim adventure?
Too far to tell.
And me… peeking at real HD,
out the window, eyeing your reflection,
(are you clutching a rock, now?)
I’m studying an aping of Shane,
all tattooed, and
into the last little bit of sun.