My Past Five Years by Dan Provost

You can live your weirdness your own way.
Smoke pot, be a bum…
Sit on a couch and do nothing…
Fear the inside—the outside (both literately and figuratively)
Know that you’re dying and don’t give a fuck.
Lack a soul, find a soul—drink alone in a corner of a bar
With a great juke box, have a cause, stare through the
Window and watch the children play next door…
Think “it” is an artistic philander
Cheat, lie, tell you girlfriend that you love her
Listen to skynyrd…hate woman, love drugs
Anticipate destruction…assassinate your being by
Standing in the road, adore Jimi Hendrix, hate
The “lie” that “we”, “you”, us live daily.
Cross over to another emotional plane that sadly
must suffice somehow for the rest of your life
Read philosophy, hate philosophy, end poems with lines
Like Brazen Escape… hike the woods for mental stability
Read Cormac McCarthy, cheer for losers—hate the winners
Tell yourself you don’t want to be like “them” …
Maybe deep down you do.  Tell the truth about
Where you are, shoot heroin, cry for the bad man, hunt
For air and convince yourself that you’ve won bagging
The big game…search…oh yes, the search—over there,
Under here, behind the curtain, through the mountains, seek
And you shall find—find what? Whose situation are you
Going to take advantage of…have I used the word you
Too much? Tough.  I don’t give a shit…Isolation, desperation, lonely,
Depressed, depraved—searching for kindness by being polite—write a
Book about being Martin Luther King’s sheriff; talk about nothing on the
Telephone—forced words, entries in a room of blood, feel your pain
You will escape in the final reel. Watch Christ’s crucifixion and see it
Within yourself… trap a tackle, love a little, hate a little—did I repeat?
I don’t care, smother the poor—the weak, they don’t deserve it but it’s done
Anyways…feel bad for those who starve—the crippled, the misguided, the disillusioned
Youth…they feel—oh yes, they feel.  When the blackness shaves their guts with
A dull knife that shines our constant pain.  Pain…pain.  It exists—sometimes I
Think it’s all that exists.  Denial is so easy when you can’t take the next step…we
Are children of nothing…a grandiose tour through the sickening weeds, he finds
He finds summation through a demented lottery.  She gets stoned like the Shirly
Jackson story—and the accepted; the Oprahs, the Christmas lights, the political cabinet
And the protesters…will all fade in the end—this is a world of lies, false bravado, broken
Chances, broken bottles of beer that are seen in every alleyway, byway and avenue of hope.
We turn away and more die.  We are guilty as we drink our wine…the depths of our fall
Never ends—it will continue
                                                      On and on and on
Until the dream of paradise signals no more and

ugly people play just for keeps…

Dan Provost
Dan Provost is old. He has had eight books of poetry published

 

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