the poems of george jones
...generation sucks

really exactly

I didn’t really want her,
not exactly;
I liked her friend—
the one with long, black hair,
camo-gear sorta female-frilly,
quiet but
there. exactly. really.
but the friend was too odd,
looked sweet, then away.

so I cut my losses
and moved closer
to her, the one with
red hair gone cotton, fluffed,
who also dressed down,
in long coats
and thick sweaters
(you could tell she really
had a good body, just not
exactly) she wanted to be
a journalist, had recently
changed her mind;
I liked that.

and it got to happen; really; just not exactly.
we met at this coffee shop
not far from class…where,
for some reason, she’d invited
her friend. not the
camo-gear one, this one was
younger, really senior high school,
not exactly college.
I liked her friend, despite
the obvious difference in our
ages. the friend moved, talked,
was there.
but my would-be journalistic love
really; not

see, I’d try to start a conversation,
and try again,
and try again.
(exactly. really.)
while she kept her nose
in some paper
picked up
off the now empty counter.

somewhere between poverty
and something else,
somewhere between
one friend
and another,
stress and suicide,
I cut my losses. again.

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Last updated on
Saturday March 17, 2007