(untitled)

by Brian Jude

eeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOP!
WHERE
is the beginning?
the end?
the subject-predicate verb agreement?
the structure of phase and phrase and verse?
the punctuality of punctuation?
the rhyme and reason of a nine-to-five slob?
the iambic pentameter of a professional bum?

WHY
the haphazard semi-colons and commas?
the run-on sentences of excuses?
the sentence fragments of career objectives?
the unfinished work that cannot be more complete?
the completed work that is never done?

WHAT
is this poem?
the words created within the confines of imaginary pages?

WHY
am I forced to deal with
this modern fart before me?

I DON'T FEEL LIKE
staring at this array
of nebulous colors,
textures,
materials,
and obscure rhombi
that not even the artist can interpret!

I WANT
fifty-two concentric heptaons,
each fitting neatly around the next,
getting larger and larger,
each a different color
for variety
(everything in moderation:
too much structure is boring).

WHY
do I feel so un-free in times of un-work?
paying heed to a sporadic internal alarm clock?
thoughts to wander wonder wander about
giving birth to a family of fears?
Macho Macho Male insecurities!
say it all without any audience,
talktalktalktalktalk without a word of information;
silence is olden.
jealous, jealous, jealous of what I haven't thought
of,
the unplanned vacation I prayed for...

WHEN
will it pray for me?

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