April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I sit across from a man,
we look at each other
without shifting our heads,
it’s a staring contest
like the ones from lunch
in junior high school.
My opponent has no face
I am afraid he might win.
I try to picture him with
eyes, blinking, signifying
my victory, but I cannot.
He is tougher than to fall
for such trickery. He simply
sits there blankly, wearing
me to the point of exhaustion.
I rapidly throw my hands
above my head, screaming:
He has won! He has won!
I have no time for games
that are unfair towards me.
I run circles about the table
chanting silly rhymes and
his eyeless face stares
to where I was sitting.
It is pointless. He has
won and is still playing.
I sit back down, rest
my head against the table
and fall into a deep sleep.
Later…I wake, blink–
surprised at man laying
on the table sleeping,
and how he looks like me.
April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
When we talk about making love; it is
as though we already are; it is as though
the world has collapsed at our feet and
all the walls that held us at their mercy
have been destroyed and we are left among
the ashen ruins; as though we have been
placed there all along; it is as though we are
Adam and Eve, sent to make our Eden
from these crumbs, this devastation left; and
in that hour when we hold each others’ bodies
naked in the cold sun, when our bodies
lie exhausted quivering; it will be
as though we never parted before or
holding forever while time slips endless.
April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
___________
Well, it’s 2am, which could only mean one thing I’m working. The front desk job is not helping at all with the bout of insomnia I’ve been having. I never thought I would say it, but I hate fucking school and just want to drop out, living in my car off McDonald’s food and poetry writing. Maybe I’ll skip down to Mexico and die of exposure, like my prot�g� (Neal Cassady). Other than the normal depression (angst) I’m all peaches and cream.
I find it odd writing letters at this time of day. Maybe I know that they will probably never be sent, but more likely it is because I know when I wake up (that is if I go to sleep) I won’t be the same person. I’ve found that I’m happier with my fa�ade then I am with myself, which causes problems beyond my rational train of thought at the moment. As it has shut down, uncoupled, and garaged sleeping peacefully wishing my body would join it.
I’ve also found myself considering something, which a friend once told me, “kisses used to mean something.” Why I remember I don’t know. Still, I’m drawn to believe that yes kisses did mean something, or should mean something still. Yet, I’ve never felt the faint mystic power of a physical connection. I’ve never been in love, and mostly likely will die without ever feeling its affects. In fact, I wish that I were chaste as Hippolytus, who spat in the face of Aphrodite. Yes, to you love, I bid you a long goodbye.
Still, I should not find myself so dreadfully alone in the few waning seconds before I sleep. And I do question my own sanity because of this. Is it love that makes us human, or are we human because we love? In which case, I am neither.
There are a million things I want to say. My mind is a myriad of thoughts and complex mathematical equations (last time I do Calc II after midnight). I felt the rush of warm air and knew that it was spring anew. I want to feel the slight caress of the girl I gave up on before I knew her. I want to drag the knife one more time down my triceps to see if I still bleed, to feel the pain, to feel anything instead of nothing, my hollow shell in the great social masquerade ball.
pat williams
spring 2001
