-1George, or something else

I feel a strong poetic license to rip your throat out;
let each word
reprobate and
patronize
the musky thought of you:

yes,
that's right, George,
I am a tad bit angry

just a smidgen,
I might say, to laugh
it off - keep it
at bay
for
so
long.

I was fifteen
when twin planes
and twin buildings
met - but
already
that's a metaphor,
there's no need
for more
poems prolonging it.

Or wars; poets
on all fours, thirsting
for words -

girls uncuping their hands
from mouths sour
with quick breathing.

Girls
who drove cars
freely in the sunshine,
oblivious to gas prices.

Girls, with turquoise nail polish,
dreaming in soft beds
nestled underneath a drizzly sky -

he says,
it's not the
sky, it's
me.

I don't know what
to say George,

I'll miss you -
but I won't.

I'll kiss the idea of
you, like a handmaiden
to democracy -

say that lady liberty
is my queen, and I
bow to her, a mother
to a southern father,
frightful, with fists
filled with

something that the
rest of us cringe for.

There's a woman
alone; (oh well)
I guess, stiff

and cold (I
could turn the
heat on, but
what's the point -
it wont
warm
me).

There's a woman
laying her employee's
down upon the road
paved by the mistakes
of others.

I tell Justin, that I
will not worry about it,
but it all changes
here, beside the window
glass, keys buzzing
away, with thoughts
transcribed to words;

just
trying
to
write
without
the
worry of what it means.

What it meant to me
at the time - someone
else

who held the shield
of youth, and wore
it,

my own scarlet 'S'

my own?

I will tell them
that I'm sorry, blame
the economy, AGI,
GM,

blame lame excesses,
hand them all
unemployment paperwork,
give them
names and numbers

I will write them all
glowing resumes, try
and not see the faces
of their children
when I try to go to
sleep at night.

I want to tell Justin
that I hate everything
about this, except
for his joking mannerism
driving through Burien
in his filthy car,
making me laugh,
even though our presence
was pointless, and the
traffic frustrates him.

The car smells like sweat,
I tell myself that I'm over him.

I'm so
over it; and yes
I'll try to keep it
realistic,

although my
reality is a hell
of a lot more real
then his.

But this is it…

The real word
fuckers; fucking,
sucking, smucking around
with the fake
facade
that I'm cool enough
to claim.

This is it;
no poetry, no pages,
just plagues, and bitches
who kiss rumors about me,

make love to
the hatred in it.

Fake girls,
fake boys,

fake sentences, names, outlooks

that's right, it's all
bullshit.

And who am I
in that world?

Sexy, is my hair a mess,
pulled out of my face,
after a hard day, cup of coffee,
eight (and some odd) hours
of lack there of - but I can
make you believe it -

and no, it's not glamorize
to get everything you
thought your ever wanted.

Work for it, long enough to
make yourself bleed, please..

tease, bitch, that's the game.

Anyway George, I might have
let this become something else,
rather then you, but you seem
to be the extension of my
adulthood.

I learned to drive through, and during
your administration, legalized
long enough to not vote for you
the first time I could.

I was hoping for the other guy,
but I got you.

This is some shit, George,
something' - something'

I hear it will be better
(someday) after your gone.