I think God has a cruel sense of humor.
Because when I turned eleven and pleaded with all my might to become immortal,
I heard Him chuckle in the confides of the newly blackened space
And He snuffed me out like a candle with a
“I don’t think so, kiddo.”
But he never gave me my wish back…
So I keep asking for it, every year, because maybe He’s testing me.
Maybe I have to dedicate an entire lifetime
to asking for immeasurable lifetimes.
But after eight failed attempts of asking on your birthday to never die,
you get a bit impatient…
So I tried looking for another god –
I heard the Jew’s God let flames burn for longer than expected
during prayer within weathered temporal lobes
Maybe if I pray to him, I’ll never die.
Or maybe if I prove to Buddha with promises cut from rib bones
through which modest poverty has shown
that I am the reincarnation of him, he’ll let me remember
where all this bottled-up wisdom came from –certainly from past lives.
Maybe he’d exempt me from this whole Nirvana business –
maybe I’d come back as a cow.
I wasn’t wishing for Heaven when I was eleven;
didn’t want something normal like a puppy.
All I wanted was more time.
And now... my birthday candles are offered matchsticks
to light bong bowls for the soulless
and God won’t snuff me out this time.
My confetti is changing leaves and passing seasons
crunching beneath my feet.
And my birthday cake is baked,
with something a little more special than a mother’s love –
if you know what I mean.
Prufrock may have measured his life in coffee spoons
but these faithless friends of mine measure theirs by the grams and ounces.
I’m contemplating a hundred decisions and indecisions,
all before the taking of a trashed friend from a party
Counting all of his potential losses, lost potential,
Doubling my own cognitive processing.
My brain is a maze of street lamps of
shattered light bulb thoughts.
I’ve calculated I’m eight years older than what I appear to be
See, God’s funny – he’s aged my soul for each year
I wished to be freed from his and Mother Nature’s grasps.
When I turn twenty, I will, no doubt,
rattle with subtle chain smoker’s rasp
from screaming out too much poetry
And all this passion will leave my breast
as shriveled as prunes, as dried raisins in the sun.
I’ll only produce the most bitter of unopened wine.
Will Jesus come back to turn ocean shores into vineyards,
the way my conscious has coiled around my prefrontal cortex,
protesting change and yet liquefying under peer pressure?
Adrenaline rushes and dopamine doses
more deserving of attention,
screaming at my cerebellum
a discourse of fear, or pleasure –
Do I dare to endeavor?
When my faith fails me,
and my hippocampus turns over the film of my memories:
B-list films of my could not’s, did not’s,
with God as some avant garde director
who doesn’t make a lick of sense,
I’m unable to distinguish fact from fiction.
I’m no brain surgeon, but it appears to be
that we are masters of our own lobotomies.
If these friends of mine are so content with sprinkling
their sliced peaches with hash instead of sugar,
then let me forgo those saccharine tastes.
I won’t waste another brain cell or neural connection
fearing objections, won’t be compelled to
erase goals untold or dreams deferred.
Let their “cannot”s be my “can do”s
When I see a peach, I snatch it and devour it whole
Never mind the pit or its bitter aftertaste
You’re all “YOLO”s and Harlem Shakes
And I’m singing dead poetry’s obituary from book cemeteries
and winding up mechanical watches for remaining seconds on life’s stage.
Weren’t we meant to evolve beyond the Stone Age
Yet I find I’m one of few resolved to condone
Letting our lives defuse, tic-tic-tick away
Is your reticular formation to blame
for you sleeping through this duration of your life,
or is it your lack of motivation?
I’ve summed up all my losses and energies misused
to come to this revelation you will, no doubt, refuse:
You may fester like a sore, and puss with lost potential
I do not need any god’s differential indifference
nor your sidetracking ounces and grams.
I do not dare drown in human voices of doubt
or sag under this heavy load.
I dare to rasp
I dare to disturb
Even with this shortening fuse,
I dare to explode.