SENIOR YEAR!
Here are some things I might not ever learn:
• Rocket science.
• Our reason for being here.
Which one would you rather see me try
to figure out first?
I gave my life to poetry. But it turns out, it wasn’t worth it.
Meanwhile, nothing is worth it…
So who cares
really.
Now I am out in the yard
and looking at things which might be deemed
somewhat important.
I live it; I breathe it.
I cough it all
out.
I extend my imaginary hand
to you
in particular.
I reflect upon freedom; myself and the collapse of the world.
Who are we… and why
are we still
alive?
THE GOAT OF GREATNESS.
If God wants you to write
he will give you an opportunity
to become
famous.
Meanwhile I’m in your girl’s book club
like a poetic assassin.
The girls don’t recognize my photo
on the back
of the paperback.
Arms folded they watch me finish the twelve pack.
Arms folded I explain how
they JUST… DON’T… UNDERSTAND !!!
I know God wants me to write
because this beer tastes like The Blood of Christ.
And the grass isn’t green
no matter
what
type of shit
you find yourself
standing
in.
CONSUMERCONSUMER.
I skim through something horrible, then I sigh
and close your book
without
using a bookmark.
I wish I could throw your pages so far into the sky,
no one on earth
would be able to catch them.
Yes, I’ll remember your book, alright… I’ll remember
it for all the wrong reasons.
I honestly feel like puking,
which would solidify this moment as the worst moment
of my entire life.
Some people— whom you know—
have truly gone
through
hell…
so why would you go and make things worse for them?
I have some theories about that…
…which I am trying to keep to myself.
BOOKS ARE PUPPETS.
I was born in the right generation, but the right generation
still doesn’t give a shit
about poetry.
At the apartment doing push-ups, every moment of silence is a poem.
F*cker
*ucker
Fuck*r
This just might be the final nail in the coffin;
all that rejection will strengthen the muscles in your mind.
I rotate between smiles and frowns
and straight faces.
Meanwhile all I can think about are mermaids
with their perfectly fat booties
and their evil and unstoppable schemes.
Just as well, baby… Just as well….
But don’t point your pen at me, unless
you are ready
to die.
Nate Hoil writes and prints books under the publishing company Secret Restaurant Press. His most recent book 24 HOUR MONOLOGUE: COLLECTED POEMS 2017-2023 was released earlier this year.
High Horse 