I am a long time fan of the moment

I sense my heart beating a steady 40 beats / minute

I entertain gravity with my body,

occupy precisely its volume,

hold its exact weight at all times

The rest of the world is excess space,

across the Midwest mono cultures,

down the trailing beak of South America,

up the tundras of Mars

I know of an old, fat-bellied man, half a man,

in suspenders,

– scared of the sounds

the grotesque tenement house makes –

who's been denying himself

across the tundra of his life

at least since his early Twenties,

composer of beautiful poems of hate

towards me, for showing him;
I'm happy to inspire!

He has always told himself NO,

hiding like an insect in that concrete tower,

surrounded by the noise of subway trains

up for air

and the endless rubber-rolling streams

of inter-city highways;

a hellish environment,

all his money left untouched,

staying on, all his misguided life,

in that student hole, alone,

repeating frozen expressions

and stale proverbs,

retaining a pure cowardice

up in his Eighties

Soon he will die,

without ever having lived,

angry

at everyone but himself

He gave up on himself early on

He doesn't matter, he anti-matters

I, however, am a long time fan of the moment

I sense my heart beating

I entartain gravity,

occupy volume,

all times

The rest is excess space,

across the Midwest,

South America,

Mars