Terminal Boredom

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_4/Buscher.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

You expected me to come in last
in and at all things. But alas,
I’m always a man

in an overlay oozing machismo to his seat.
Sweet, I’m like a beautiful wedding
minus leis, quail, and shantung.

I sniff the dust off new bicycle seats
outside old bookstores I have gone the distance
stuffing Lego lines in moose nostrils.

Mining boogers. Shit, I’ve seen
lots of it without lifting a pick-axe to pluck
emerald from the ear, bud.

I work at Whole Foods. I sling
good organics through the diffused light
of a storefront bathed in libertarian mud.

Sometimes there is sexual mischief.
Occasionally there is sexual mischief.
Rarely is there sexual mischief.

Smokes pot, obvi. Questionable
sterility and habits of hygiene that are
surprisingly forward thinking for so sickly

a man, a figure, a bundle
of sticks in an airport creamery
yelling fire, fire, fire.