He went to good schools, and got
bad grades and he never quite saw
the potential his teachers spoke of.
He grew into his manhood with that same
unsure attitude, that same uncertainty,
that same instability, those same shakey
legs that carried around bad grades
like dirty laundry.
He went to good schools, and ate bad lunches
and now in his shakey manhood he liked
sketching his encounters with a mad world.
Piecing together odd photographs with words
studied from tragic definitions, and old torn
dictionary meanings, the spaces between
the words in the books can often take
forever, often break his heart, often
confuse him, like the teacher, confuse him.
He went to good schools, and until not
too long ago had a bad idea of reality,
there was shouting and madness and
protest, but no meaning, no substance
to the punches he threw at the deep rooted
walls of the world. Hacking away desperately
at the roots of his own dissolution without much
to do now but wait, in those same unsure,
uncertain, unstable, shakey legs from
childhood.
He rolls up, smokes and goes to bed,
thinking about that cruel , dark haired,
voluptuousness that never even messages anymore.







© Orin Patterson