Non-Erotic PoetryWinter Sunthe coldness of the concrete bench
on the Diag
as I sat there,
still stone drunk at
7 AM, watching
the automatons as they shuffled
on their merry ways
to their labs and morning classes,
and thinking that I was probably the craziest motherfucker
in all of Ann Arbor
and that was really saying something
because there were a lot of crazy motherfuckers in Ann Arbor.
Time
was like molasses then, an endless
slo-mo procession of hollow moments, each
emptier than the last.
But then
I became lost in the false picture show,
at one with each leaf and mindless buffoon,
and the decades flew by
like bullets, and now
I luxuriate in the beauty
of an icy sun
trying vainly to penetrate
yet another gray Michigan sky,
as I am
stuck in another traffic jam, just like
a red corpuscle bearing the last oxygen molecule
in a clogged artery.
So if there's a moral, it's that
maybe you don't need to
pull that trigger.
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