A Poem For Tonight Written Right Now
I just want to wish Steve Jobs a peaceful death because everyone seems to be wishing him a good trip to hell. I mean, I didn’t know the guy. I just know he wanted to change the technical world. And everyone who owns an iPod or a replica of it should be grateful that the jerk was confident enough to pirate the Silicon Valley. Just like, although the twins pushed on their galley, Mark Zuckerberg went down in history. You have to be selfish. You have to take credit for the originality of coincidences. You have to shout back at belligerence even if it doesn’t make sense and you’re packing your shit at two in the morning going home.
My sister goes to West Point and so is entitled to cheaper train tickets. And I agree that the twenty bucks to Grand Central aren’t twenty bucks well spent so I tried her method once, got away with it, and tried it again. And so the ticket taker made his way down and took my senior stub or whatever. And his hole puncher is ready, going click click click. And he goes, “Now are you under twelve?” and I said, “Don’t I look it?” So I had to pay that extra plus the on-peak fare. And it’s not like I’m saving the world or anything so who really cares. And I took the on-peak to who knows to where and when. And since the soldiers of America is everyone’s friend, she and her seven-foot boyfriend blends with the other ecstatic children skipping to see the Ring starting at ten. It’s all in the camouflage.
It’s all in the initiative. Who really counts up to the derivative when it’s only you convincing with your self-serving bias. It’s David and Goliath. It’s all in the line moving and you choosing to be number four or number three or number two. It’s the patience expected of you when you’re hurt and the selfless pondering that you’re not capable to retort in return. To react to a child’s account like he discovered a cure for a AIDS. To brave the torturous wrestling in the middle of the day. To, for the sake of courtesy, pretend that their cereal box watches are cool. To not push with more effort on the canoe. To wade helplessly, feet wet in the drowned weeds and the dew feeling bound to the troughs to not expose the tainted rude. But to stand in the shower, thinking, “Man, my boobs really grew.” So you go out on an adventure and make some discoveries, too.
And irate bitches to the left whispering, “Who is that chick? She’s new!” And your flirty smiles and slight lean-ins are painted out to be something lewd. And before you know it, you stole someone’s man and they’re running après vous. And your eyeliner is bleeding and head is leaking but you stick to your attitude.
You have to laugh loudest in the room. You have to stroke gently to the tune. You have to think like those guys rubbing their palms together thinking, “I’m gonna make her my boo.” And that might not be likely but, you know.. do what you gotta do. You have to take it harder on the booze. But don’t start sobbing at the bar because you aren’t Ray Charles; this isn’t the blues. You have to dance smooth and really prove. That you’re someone who gets the joke even though it was too loud and you didn’t hear it, too. And you don’t remember names so you’re like, “Oh, that’s hilarious, You!” And some days, I know, you’re really not even in the mood. But you have to be in the in-crowd or choose to be a mute. You have to be the man. That is, you have to go hard in the paint or no one really gives a damn. And they have to really want fans because it makes them feel included. And avoiding being booted means that you didn’t lose.
And race with the chase to South San Francisco in North California on child off-peak tickets in tall hats made for witches skipping in privileged camouflage, salivating wet, hungry as a dog. Conditioned and aggressive and flaring smoke like a choo. But a body is dead today and all we care about is how he was viewed.