Bluster of the Little a

Once we were content to spit on each other

And laugh, and throw the word "asshole" around
Like it meant what it said. But the towel snaps
Usually rolled off of us like drops
Because no one knew anyone then
And even the game was too primitive
To ever say anyone had won.

Soon we moved into identical homes,
With identical women, and jobs we pretended
— Unlike the first two — to be the same.

We learned there was nothing to win,
No wild game inside the parks, so we sat
On our sofas and did some calculations,
Pulling more victories from thin air,
To share with a few, special people
Who didn't seem to understand or care.

Now we laugh when the boys yell we will die soon,
And we've started to wonder why we never
Learned to surf, and only wrote letters home
Under duress, and looked to get out of
Any homework that was assigned. Was there
Something more important than experiencing life?

The dribbling ball, the taunt at one's weakness,
It all kind of disappeared in shame.

There's enough polarity today to sail a yacht.

What a world we live in, where any claims
To consciousness can be drowned with
"It's stupid ... lame ... bullshit ... I don't care."

And you wait for something that they care about

To seep like anti-freeze from their chiseled,
Getting-their-dick-sucked mouth, but it's always
Something else, a more elaborate insult
In a longer, heart-rending diatribe
Lacking any argument or story
But full of a point that they are right,
Always they are right, and the wrong must wait
To respond until they've safely moved away.

For the wind needs to blow
And the trees need to kill
Some of their own branches
And drop too many seeds
So the wind can feel useful.