just thinking about things.
I go to the park to think. I like to walk; it clears my mind. That is to say, to correct myself, I go to the park by my grandmother’s house in Broad Moore to escape incessant thoughts that I can’t not think about by walking.
I don’t go to the park out of joy for the environment or humanitarianism. In fact, that’s the opposite of why I sit on plastic benches and why I sit by the placid lake. That would contradict my principle of hating all people. I walk to the park alone. So it is by default that I hate all people, because none of the six-point-something billion people in the world choose to go to the park with me. Zero.
I am quite selfish. I love attention but do not seek it, expecting my cross-legged plastic bench meditations to be disrupted by friends with a pleasant surprise. Instead I sit firmly, at the end of the seat, leaving room for a sandy-haired female visitor that lives nowhere near Broad Moore.
I remember my first deliberate walk in the park, to escape the make-up smeared tears and the overwhelming eating of Lebanese food and drinking of cheap Wisconsin beer at my grandmother’s house. My grandfather had just died. I wanted nothing but to be alone, so I went to the park to find no one, even though I had expected and wanted friends to be there in my loneliness with Jack Daniel’s and Marlboro.
When the Corolla filled with peers picked me up a few hours after my deliberate escape from the smell of elderly people, we sat around a picnic bench in the park. I drank, smoked and paid for nothing. I didn’t think to thank or pay back any of my friends who bought clothes at Wal-Mart or worked in an accountant’s office, the green bills meant nothing to me, even if the bills had numbers stating they weren’t nothing. I had expected to be picked up in that beaten up Corolla, why thank the expected?
I over-idealize. I remember that even my third-grade acquaintances, I hoped to shortly be able to mathematically define them as an Aristotelian mentor, a Deep Throat confidant, or a Venusian lover. I have yet to meet a female black sheep with red hair to accompany me. No one can reach my expectations, because I have not met an Aristotle, Deep Throat, or Venus.
Two Fridays ago I was sitting on the grass in the Broad Moore park a little past midnight, and a young couple around seventeen years old skipped by, loudly singing the theme to Spongebob. They were high. So incredibly intoxicated off of the acid, she and he had decided to drip some hits of the hallucinogen on pieces of Wonder Bread (I saw them do it as meticulously as a brain surgeon), planning to feed this concoction to several native ducks of the lake. “The ducks are going to fucking believe they’re dinosaurs, man” being the most coherent and militarized sentence the male directed at me.
They were doing this in my park, my park. She and he had not been at 661 Buttonbush Lane when Doctor Reverend Paul W. Meyer died on January 26, she and he had not walked blurry-eyed to the Broad Moore community park that warm and sunny January day. She and he had had their Friday night filled with acid, mine had been in my park cold and sober, being the whatever-the-hell-I-was.
Poetry by Zachary P. B.
Read 889 times
Written on 2007-09-20 at 03:38
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September 18
September 18I go to the park to think. I like to walk; it clears my mind. That is to say, to correct myself, I go to the park by my grandmother’s house in Broad Moore to escape incessant thoughts that I can’t not think about by walking.
I don’t go to the park out of joy for the environment or humanitarianism. In fact, that’s the opposite of why I sit on plastic benches and why I sit by the placid lake. That would contradict my principle of hating all people. I walk to the park alone. So it is by default that I hate all people, because none of the six-point-something billion people in the world choose to go to the park with me. Zero.
I am quite selfish. I love attention but do not seek it, expecting my cross-legged plastic bench meditations to be disrupted by friends with a pleasant surprise. Instead I sit firmly, at the end of the seat, leaving room for a sandy-haired female visitor that lives nowhere near Broad Moore.
I remember my first deliberate walk in the park, to escape the make-up smeared tears and the overwhelming eating of Lebanese food and drinking of cheap Wisconsin beer at my grandmother’s house. My grandfather had just died. I wanted nothing but to be alone, so I went to the park to find no one, even though I had expected and wanted friends to be there in my loneliness with Jack Daniel’s and Marlboro.
When the Corolla filled with peers picked me up a few hours after my deliberate escape from the smell of elderly people, we sat around a picnic bench in the park. I drank, smoked and paid for nothing. I didn’t think to thank or pay back any of my friends who bought clothes at Wal-Mart or worked in an accountant’s office, the green bills meant nothing to me, even if the bills had numbers stating they weren’t nothing. I had expected to be picked up in that beaten up Corolla, why thank the expected?
I over-idealize. I remember that even my third-grade acquaintances, I hoped to shortly be able to mathematically define them as an Aristotelian mentor, a Deep Throat confidant, or a Venusian lover. I have yet to meet a female black sheep with red hair to accompany me. No one can reach my expectations, because I have not met an Aristotle, Deep Throat, or Venus.
Two Fridays ago I was sitting on the grass in the Broad Moore park a little past midnight, and a young couple around seventeen years old skipped by, loudly singing the theme to Spongebob. They were high. So incredibly intoxicated off of the acid, she and he had decided to drip some hits of the hallucinogen on pieces of Wonder Bread (I saw them do it as meticulously as a brain surgeon), planning to feed this concoction to several native ducks of the lake. “The ducks are going to fucking believe they’re dinosaurs, man” being the most coherent and militarized sentence the male directed at me.
They were doing this in my park, my park. She and he had not been at 661 Buttonbush Lane when Doctor Reverend Paul W. Meyer died on January 26, she and he had not walked blurry-eyed to the Broad Moore community park that warm and sunny January day. She and he had had their Friday night filled with acid, mine had been in my park cold and sober, being the whatever-the-hell-I-was.
Poetry by Zachary P. B.
Read 889 times
Written on 2007-09-20 at 03:38
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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