Are there people who you always want to be mean to? There are for me. Although there are only two of them, I want to be a total bitch and bop them in the nose every single time I hear them, read about them and, especially, see them. Nearly all of the time, I hold back from saying anything terrible, but I will occasionally let some soft-core insults slip. When this does happen, I think they deserve it, really. They’re just annoying as hell.
I would sit and stare blankly out my
window at night, looking at the nearest high-rise
and its Coke-bottle-green windows that
were illuminated from the inside, and
worry- rather than wonder- why I couldn’t draw
any inspiration from them.
Ingenuity was dried up back then.
It was possible that I gushed with so much
creativity when I was younger, that it
overflowed completely- leaving nothing
to even taste in my later years.
I was studying to be a journalist,
aspiring to do something different like the
Celebrated Gonzo, but I lacked the grit
to even start. I called on god, but
rowed away from the rocks.
While traveling the summer prior,
my family visited The Big Smoke,
that foggy city cut up by the jade tinted
Thames and the Blitz. We rode the Tube,
which is just a subway to Americans.
You can’t see anything other than cement tunnels,
but it’s the most efficient way to travel.
We waited to catch our trains inside stations
that had glass and iron ceilings, where one
could watch the fog-filled morning raindrops
pitter, patter and roll down. Things were fresh
and I learned what is art and what is history
and what is art history, but never did I learn how.
After the trip, I had returned to academia.
In fluorescent-lit classrooms, we were taught
how to make a buck and how to provide. Equipped with new brains,
we knew the cold hard cash was what we needed.
I suppose I blame that as the partial cause of this mess.
I had left my verve in a soggy lump and,
no matter how hard I tried, I could ever to come back to it.