Student to old age
I, the subject of all time’s reckoning and all time’s
subjugation so long I count it with my cells,
so short I whimper alone when it goes along swaying
its ass in my face in proof of how it holds me,
ignorant and angry, amalgamated and simpering, I groan,
only, and keep the count counting in how its heighth
counters mine, and how might my tongue please it
lapping at the air where poor time speaks its cant
against the drippings my eyes sit on, dare I say it,?
constipated, waiting to pupate in an old man’s eyes
that speak quietly enough in short sentences barked.
Like man I gotta go to work I want my Kerouac now.