the good days





we are not MySpace cardboard cookie-cut around formed sides

community is not an aspect we are in need of
i do not want to be your friend, motherfucker

cause the last time i knew, i was in it
for the art and the art alone
it was a single-package deal

coming in to camp as a beginner, rough and raw
got tumbled around in the dirt and told i needed work
and i took it, like a man to the chin
head-fucking-on
the next time a councelor tried to throw me to the ground
i snapped his wrist in four places

the difference in woodwork is the texture
the new camp wood was full of splinters
rough around the edges, a complete character
the aged logs are dull and scattered
starting to rot and full of bugs
known but forgotten, a disfigured fighter

art is backburner material at this new camp
all the kids are fat and greedy and full of candy
bogged down with sweets, holy teeth, twisty ankles.
lazy pacifists with no desires past appetite,
no hopes of ever getting laid.

i could run circles around them,
notebook and pen in hand, waxing poetic masterpieces with my left hand.
show them that passion is needed, motivation is wanting;
that better poem; that perfect sonnet;
that second published novel that pays the house off entirely;
that third screenplay you can afford to direct yourself;
that poem softly slammed at sappy spoken word in a sultry coffeehouse that finally gets that girls attention;
that piece of prose you painstakingly prod until you realize that poetry equals freedom;
that piece you write to Ginsberg in thanks.

i could run around them laughing,
knowing they never knew the good days.