Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
When I sleep poorly, I harm myself,
not with pills or knives
but doughy pizza and poker.
These might sound small—verily they are,
but I’ve avoided loving any people who die
and only been once dumped,
on my quest for #2.
Still a kid, a spoiled millennial,
these problems equate to self-inflicted boredom.
The world will crush me. It crushes us all.
Build your ark. Recession’s a-comin’.
Who but you? and I still cry
Broke for a month—two now, nigh.
At 3am I beat the streets
Hands grasping for you, clasping at our lapse,
Clutched like the touch when we rushed
Our first late date in a state where I ate just to skate
More hours with you, boo, and a coo Jew too, who,
Not kissing wasn’t dissing but avoiding risking missing
A mended friend to send if romance is no dance.
Does shoving love like I did above
Make man weak, meek, where he will seek
For him and women to simmer unlimited,
But dimmer without your almighty shimmer?
Julian Wise 