No Bones.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
At Best.
At best I’ll go to Chicago without you and begin to make a solitary life for myself. The picture frames that once held us, now sitting empty on my shelf. And I’ll pursue my dream of being a hopeless romantic revolutionary, who revolts in ink and paper. I’ll write for all I’m worth, in your stead. I’ll compose catchy little pieces of poems to be assembled later in my head, as I ride the “el” downtown to catch that audition, counting on staying busy to keep the pain of my slowly mending heart in remission. And I’ll work steady and I’ll be good. The critics will be gracious and word will spread. The good press will boost my esteem and eventually go to my head. I’ll find a bar that I like. I’ll drink once a week with Steve. I’ll read what I’ve written at some open mic. And constantly rethink what I believe. I’ll be cold in the winter. I’ll wear great big wool coats and breath out extra hard when I first leave the house because I’ll like the steam that erupts from my lips. I’ll learn to smoke again because cigarettes are best in the cold. And take comfort in pale skinned hips. I’ll kiss in the dark and let the wine of lust lull my memories of the city I came from into a deeper sleep. And I’ll write in strange times about the silence I keep. And I’ll do well for myself. I’ll be know on the scene. I’ll have poems that get published in some artsy magazine. And then some publishing house will have a momentary lapse of reason and offer me a deal. I’ll bind all my poems in leather chains hard as steel. And I’ll be hardbound when I step to the mic at the Green Mill. Me, in a spotlight before a microphone, reading from my book, one of my clichéd bullshit poems, as I appear before you twice. Me, in a holy sweater, bloodshot eyes, and grinning. And me, on the back of my book. A typical bullshit photo of me smiling and pretending I’m winning. And then the day will come. Between my featured poet night at the local independent book store and my opening night of “Picasso at the Lapin Agile” My secret dream only recently having been revealed will be fulfilled, as Mos Def or Russell Simmons, I wouldn’t care which one, would say, “Sean. Come be on HBO. We want you to be a Def Poet on the next season of our show.” And I’d be there. Standing next to Rives and Suheir. Stressing over whether or not I was good enough. And my three minutes would come up. And my heart would race. I’d walk towards the stage, fighting the metallic taste in the back of my mouth. Hearing the expectant applause of the crowd in the house. And I’d settle myself to begin with remiss and I’d start a poem that began like this.
“I was in love once. Still am. And I regret, more than anything, not seeing where that could have gone.”
And that’s it, at best. Me moving to Chicago, but never really moving on.
¶ 6:20 PM 0 comments
At best I’ll go to Chicago without you and begin to make a solitary life for myself. The picture frames that once held us, now sitting empty on my shelf. And I’ll pursue my dream of being a hopeless romantic revolutionary, who revolts in ink and paper. I’ll write for all I’m worth, in your stead. I’ll compose catchy little pieces of poems to be assembled later in my head, as I ride the “el” downtown to catch that audition, counting on staying busy to keep the pain of my slowly mending heart in remission. And I’ll work steady and I’ll be good. The critics will be gracious and word will spread. The good press will boost my esteem and eventually go to my head. I’ll find a bar that I like. I’ll drink once a week with Steve. I’ll read what I’ve written at some open mic. And constantly rethink what I believe. I’ll be cold in the winter. I’ll wear great big wool coats and breath out extra hard when I first leave the house because I’ll like the steam that erupts from my lips. I’ll learn to smoke again because cigarettes are best in the cold. And take comfort in pale skinned hips. I’ll kiss in the dark and let the wine of lust lull my memories of the city I came from into a deeper sleep. And I’ll write in strange times about the silence I keep. And I’ll do well for myself. I’ll be know on the scene. I’ll have poems that get published in some artsy magazine. And then some publishing house will have a momentary lapse of reason and offer me a deal. I’ll bind all my poems in leather chains hard as steel. And I’ll be hardbound when I step to the mic at the Green Mill. Me, in a spotlight before a microphone, reading from my book, one of my clichéd bullshit poems, as I appear before you twice. Me, in a holy sweater, bloodshot eyes, and grinning. And me, on the back of my book. A typical bullshit photo of me smiling and pretending I’m winning. And then the day will come. Between my featured poet night at the local independent book store and my opening night of “Picasso at the Lapin Agile” My secret dream only recently having been revealed will be fulfilled, as Mos Def or Russell Simmons, I wouldn’t care which one, would say, “Sean. Come be on HBO. We want you to be a Def Poet on the next season of our show.” And I’d be there. Standing next to Rives and Suheir. Stressing over whether or not I was good enough. And my three minutes would come up. And my heart would race. I’d walk towards the stage, fighting the metallic taste in the back of my mouth. Hearing the expectant applause of the crowd in the house. And I’d settle myself to begin with remiss and I’d start a poem that began like this.
“I was in love once. Still am. And I regret, more than anything, not seeing where that could have gone.”
And that’s it, at best. Me moving to Chicago, but never really moving on.
¶ 6:20 PM 0 comments
