THIS IS A POEM 1.9.17

1.9.17

Don’t mind me, Hewey said.

He put on a record and then opened the double doors leading out to the balcony and stood on the balcony railing looking down to the street below. He still had his coffee mug in his right hand.

Get down from there, I said.

Imagine, Hewey said. How would you do it? Would you dive head first, elegant-like. Would you do a flip? A gainer? Or would you hurl your body off and let the physics of air do with it what it will?

I wouldn’t jump, I said.

Why not? Hewey asked.

Because I like living.

What do you like about it?

I thought about that question for a long time. While I thought, I cut out coupons. It was Thursday. Safeway had incredible deals on Thursdays.

I like waking up, I said.

What do you like about waking up?

That it happens, I said. That you close your eyes and fall into a cycle of death. And then by some miracle your eyes open and you’re inserted back into the flow of things.

Also, I said, I like the sun.

Hewey was standing on the railing barefoot.

I was out there last night, on that balcony. I was getting my dick sucked right there. What a thing to say, I know.

But it was happening.

And the person it was happening with was my ex-girlfriend, who, for last night, for one single night, agreed to be mine again.

But during our interaction, I said some things she did not like. I said, Baby, you’re amazing. I said, I’ve always thought you’re amazing. But, I said, there’s nothing about you that I like anymore and that is an excruciating way to feel about someone as beautiful and perfect as you.

She tried to bite through my member.

Then she tried pushing me off the balcony.

Then she hit me.

Then she spit on me.

Then she cried.

Then she left.

She hasn’t come back yet. And this is her apartment.

Hewey and I slept here last night. We’ll stay as long as we can. There is no other place in the entire universe that will accept us. Besides, I owe her an apology.

The record ended.

Hewey had his eyes closed, standing perfectly still on the balcony railing, his hands extended out like a cross. He swayed slightly, just slightly, every once in a while in the breeze.

I’m the king of the world, he screamed.

No you’re not Hewey, I said. Get down from there. I’m hungry.

What are the odds, Hewey said, of me jumping and landing on your girlfriend? Imagine: she’s walking around down there. And I land on her like a gift from god.

You’d probably kill her.

Good, Hewey said.

No, I said. I love her. And if you say another word about her I’ll push you off.

Fine, Hewey said. Let’s go find her, then. Let’s eat and then we’ll go look for her. And we will find her. I can feel it. There’s destiny on the wind.

Fine, I said, pocketing the coupons. Let’s go.

Written at 11:52 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while dealing with the sound of an obnoxious space heater.

A thought: This is in no way a poem. Or is a poem simply anything you label a poem?  

-Poem

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