Temporal Dissonance
i hate poetry —
or rather, i hated it
the first time i was subjected to a reading
english class, ninth grade,
the teacher’s pet sitting primly at her desk
pausing
airily
between each line
pretentious motherfucker
poetry demands you take your time
and i have none to spare
i want to build rome in a day
i want to make a scan of my brain
and filter everything down
until each little thought i have
is sequestered into an essay
every experience into a story
every feeling into a photograph
i want to kiss every twink
who thinks gender is a farce
fall in love a few times
with drastically different people
live in a new city each month
just to catch the vibe
ingest
imbibe
inhale
inject
every mind-altering substance known to man
i want to throw parties
that rival jay gatsby’s —
buy a house on the water,
swing from the chandelier
in my sparkliest sequin dress
as an entire city watches from below
i want to start a venture,
grow it into an empire
survey everything from my view at the peak
and take my place as master of the universe
i want
i want
i want so much
and time is my only nonrenewable resource
i can’t spend it
pausing
between
each
line
in some stupid poem
on my third-grade report card
my teacher calls me obsessive,
impatient
m. has a disregard for things that take time
this is still my most self-destructive trait
now that i’m three times that age
you see,
i believe in fate
for as long as i can remember
i’ve known that i won’t have too much time
to make my ideas reality
there’s this ticking clock always present
in the back of my mind
never silent,
even in my dreams, it reminds me —
pushier than the strictest tiger mom
you’re late, you’re late, you’re late
in one of my earliest memories,
i made a pact with myself:
burn bright,
then burn out
a white-hot blaze against the night sky,
light trails remaining long after it’s disappeared
i thought carefully
about the people i wanted to become,
the lives i wanted to live,
then went about becoming those people
and living those lives —
going through seemingly random phases
as i checked things off from that master list
cartoonist, age six,
reams of computer paper scattered amongst my room,
crayons breaking under my heavy footsteps
novelist, age nine,
dollar-store notebooks lining my bookshelves
written in code to put nosy sisters off the trail
internet troll, age sixteen,
hand-drawn posters taped up
with no regard for the painted wall:
if someone thinks you’re a bitch for no reason,
give that bitch a reason
aspiring wall street bro, age eighteen,
supply-and-demand charts
neatly drawn in magenta and lavender,
lilly pulitzer and j. crew dresses
hanging primly in the wardrobe
silicon valley programmer, age twenty-one,
two laptops for two monitors,
rubber duck therapist
to untangle all my thorny problems
age twenty-four: writer, storyteller, artist
an excuse, perhaps
to have adventures
and tie my past selves together
while still being productive —
after all
what’s the point of living life
if it doesn’t go towards making something?
if i could,
i would stop eating and sleeping
stop seeing my friends and family —
stop at nothing
until the vision in my head becomes reality
onto the next thing
the next thing
the next
when can you relax, ask the concerned
never, never
the answer is never
i’m late, i’m late, i’m late
if an action doesn’t lead somewhere
then it isn’t worth pursuing
i’m pursuing enough as it is
my partner loves poetry —
especially poems with rhyme
or clever wordplay
with his long dark eyelashes
and arrogantly sweet demeanor
he is every twink i want to kiss
music
acting
coding
math
polymath
he has time for everything
juggling multiple priorities at once
multiple selves at once
he tells me
i wish you could balance like i do
i wish you could see the beauty in life
without needing to be more, more, more
he wishes i were intellectually curious
about things outside my realms of interest,
that i would change my plans on a whim
whenever my mind alights on something new —
that i could get into things casually
without making them my life
but i am too focused to be curious
i want to be a train
steadily chugging toward the next station
i’m a river, he says
i go where the current takes me
this fundamental difference between us
is the real cause of every fight
i mean,
i see his point
even i hate myself sometimes
looking from the perspective of another —
always telling people
that i can only talk for an hour
unless we’re doing something
that relates directly to a goal
always ending meetings early
cutting small talk short
avoiding impromptu gatherings
always rushing through poetry collections
gulping down each stanza
like i’m chugging chateau margaux straight from the bottle
because, my god,
i am running out of time —
i’m not yet burning bright enough
what if i die
and my rome is not built?
all of my thoughts,
experiences,
feelings
gone
vanished
into the ether
as though they never existed at all
what if i never get to kiss those twinks
or see the world with my lover(s),
throw those glittering soirées
or become a master of the universe
because i spent it on dumb shit that takes too long
such as poetry,
which screams of big effort
with little return
like squeezing three oranges
for a single cup of juice
i hold a chapbook in my hands:
the literary version of macarons
or those fancy meals
that disappear in a single bite —
hours of writing
for nary a page of words
each line overhandled
contrived
like cookie dough kneaded by grubby fingers
plus
some poems make me feel reckless,
make me want to throw away my schedule
and book a trip to palm beach
or the chateau marmont
and lie by the pool
in a decadent rose-print dress,
full skirts crushing beneath my legs
a tab under my tongue
my lover beside me
spending the whole day talking about nothing —
to hell with this itinerary
fuck all those goals
so what if my time is finite?
i’ll do whatever i want
i want to live
i want to live
i want to live
though i would still give up all of my journeys
to reach my destination more quickly
i’m starting to see the appeal of such things
maybe being an artist has gone to my head
or maybe i am finally starting to learn —
i have a folder on google drive
for all of my brain-scans:
fiction
essays
satire
larger works
when i began to write this,
i created a new folder called “poetry” ✦