homage 1

After Lindsey Has Taught Prufrock

I want to dwell in the possibility
of myself but you took the road

that I didn’t take, you read Prufrock
six times in one day to Prufrock

virgins I remember both of us when
she touched us with poetry that time

and today, you, and it’s like you
are the one who gets to tell 100,000 

teenagers that its okay for them
to fuck each other RIGHT NOW, like

you are Eliot’s face, made-over as the
hot teacher: I’m still wearing baggy jeans,

like in college, Today another person
thought I was a student and I said, “yeah”

with a “fuck you” nod. I went home 
and got stoned and said “I’m a poet!”

to all my facebook friends, till I saw you
and remembered who I was.

 Response:
a face for eliot- an advocate for dickinson
a resurrector of neruda and teasedale
a pleader
blind justice scanning a room full of cheaters
a warm body in a room
a supervisor of lunch areas: tuesdays, when i remember
a paycheck

and every year and so it goes
the intrigue- the reeling them in-
the carefully constructed performances to gain their attention-
to win their undying adoration.

and there are moments- resplendent moments
transcendent moments of revelation-

but also- inevitable disillusion
complacency
icannotstandtoseetheirfacesforonemoreminute andificatchonemoregirltryingtocheatrightinfront ofmyfaceidonotknowwhatiwilldoidonotthinkicanbe kindanymoredonotcomeinafterschooltoaskmewhatyou candoforafewextrapointshowaboutdoingsomething- anythingwhileyouhadthechancetoolittletolate

a necessary break.

this is mostly a road where i stand still while the whole next generation
walks by me with giddy faces wearing 12 inch heals
moving toward dead ends of their own.

"i'm a poet," i say to myself, quietly, sometimes.