Thoughts at My High School Reunion
What do you want ’23?
Do you want fame, like ‘95
who spent a lifetime waiting in LA for something to happen,
had his life blood sucked dry by TV and bud,
a lump of play-doh that dried out,
grew hard
waiting for life to shape him?
Is that what you want ’23?
Do you want fortune, like '02
who got tired of waiting for the money to come and got out
made a career,
a life for herself
and can’t walk into a gallery without collapsing,
the last remnants of her care
creeping into her belly
clutching for her heart,
screaming
why have you abandoned me,
and she
drowning
gasping for air?
What do you want ’23?
To hold onto your art?
With integrity?
like ‘85
who sits up late
with a bottle of cheap scotch
preparing the hangover to make his crappy day job a little more painful,
writing poems no one will read
thinking
is this all there is?
Or without it,
like ‘92
who plays the same crappy music that bored everyone in the ‘90’s,
maybe teach
make enough to buy a house,
settle,
let the fog smother your burning passion
to a warm coal
cooling
dying?
You’ll be fat and bald on the outside ‘23, but
do you want to be fat and bald on the inside, too?
Do you want love ’23, like '09
who finally left him when she realized he knew the crack in her ass
better than her oldest stretched and stained panties,
better than anyone has any right to,
and couldn’t bear anyone to know her that well
ever?
Or like '06
who didn’t
but wishes she could?
Do you want contentment ’23?
Is that what you want?
Content while ’36 sings a lead at the Met
and you watch online because you can’t afford the trip?
Content while ‘29’s play changes the face of American Theater
and ’26 is hailed as the greatest novelist of your generation?
Your generation.
Content?
How can you be content if you don’t know what you want ’23?
Tell me what makes you care.
Tell me what makes you be.
Tell me what you want, ’23.
And have it on my desk by Tuesday.
Spelling counts.