it’s the kind
of Sunday
that makes you wish
it was always
Sunday
always a warm
October sun
shooting at you
through a cold breeze.
even the
grasshopper and the beetle
are enjoying it
on the sidewalk with me.
maybe it’s Sunday
for them too.
grasshopper Sunday.
beetle Sunday.
it’s a lovely
walk to nowhere.
stepping away
from the mirror,
I blame the world
for cowardice now.
externalizing failure
helps me think about
breakfast, although
I only have one meal to eat.
that’s okay.
a dog barks outside
the open window
and it’s not my fault.
Saturday morning is an excuse,
a soft landing for
the ego.
that’s it,
it’s Saturday’s fault.
and tomorrow
Christ will
get the blame.
there’s a need
to prove
I’m not
a robot,
but somehow
I always get
the captcha wrong.
this is the way
of things:
humanity proving itself
to an artificial
system.
this is our
search for
truth,
cxW7a
what does an
upper-case
X
look like?
I guess
we’re not
secure enough
to know.
-the kids
in the pool
putting Barbie
under,
and believing.
hell,
that’s how
I get
it done.
made a list
of all the
things
to do,
and now
I can finally
sit down
to procrastinate.
feels good
to be done
with all
that.
i’ve slept
just up the road
from him
3 or 4
nights
now.
he drives this old
SUV with a tent
on top and wears
a fluorescent yellow
coat
so as not to get hit by
birds and squirrels.
he looks
like an older guy
but i’ve never seen
his face.
he always looks
the other way
and so do i.
it’s a general
courtesy
not to look at each other
amongst the
pine trees.
the next morning
i wake up
and look over
to see nothing
but grass and birds.
no need
for a goodbye.
sleeping
in my truck
off the side of some dirt road
I see a head-lamp
and legs going
out my window
and the head-lamp
moved to a car parked closely
behind me.
I couldn’t understand it
but didn’t care enough
to get out of bed.
in the morning
I got coffee going
on my tailgate
and looked at the
license-plate of the car.
it said:
TEXAS
and somehow that
made sense.
eventually,
the guy got out
of the car
and started packing up
all the gear
he had put out.
then he drove off.
I thought
well,
it’s 7:30am
and I’ll never understand
my own species
but
at least they
are getting
the message
about me.
I guess
you
can’t think
all
the time.
let’s end
the poem
here.
I guess
I’m just
impatient
about everything.
the old lady driving.
the day of the week.
the bottom of my
coffee cup.
I’ve got this fast machine
with a gas pedal
and another machine
to give instant answers
and between the two
there’s this sorry mind
which can’t decide
if it is passing
or being passed.
so little tempers
crawl me like ants
and there’s another
line
for the register.
somehow fast
is never fast enough
when it’s all
going nowhere.
Devin Sams 