that moment when the boxer briefs
you’re wearing catch all your bathroom’s light
WHAM! how it hits you, branches and leaves:
you’ve owned them forever, since – what’s the night?
Oh yeah! It was Valentine’s Day Dance,
Sixth Grade. You’d won them raising funds
for artists. “’Lastic band, orange frog print?” “Lance.”
(goes nice with Dance Night’s cumberbunds).
you neither grew into your boxershorts
nor grew out of them. You remained you,
the world around you grew — boxershorts
you’ve never liked, but don cause that’s what all the boys do.
But naked without them, you’re still you-
ing. You you.
_________
}{
For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.
These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.
Who was I kidding?
Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.
(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).
Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”
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