scribble

half-finished stuff from sitting in lit class.


. . . . .


you miss the turn three times
(and three,
as we all know,
is an important number--
symbolic);
the air crackles.
my hair
is stuck to the back of my neck with sweat.
we laugh,
and the pavement crunches.
(it would be too cliche
to claim that i felt the lightening in the air
on my skin--
what i really felt
were the clouds.)


. . . . .


if all literature is sex
and
i talk to myself in my poems
where does that put me?
(babbling to myself
in the middle of a profanesacred act,
lost in my own distractions.)

no wonder
i can never find a date
come friday night.