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29 + 2 - Poem by dan hightower

i am 29 years and two days old today and the haze of the past two days is now finally lifting with the urgent aid of about five cups of coffee and two shits disposing of the loose stool remnants of the munchies and a wal-mart trip. Wal-mart being my least favourite store in the galaxy and without fail the one my mother purchases a gift card from for every birthday. So with my $75 card and a fresh hit from the one-hitter I hungrily and stonedly wandered the aisles of wally world ultimately purchasing $211 worth of condiments and nothing substantial to put it on, a sad state no doubt. So upon getting home and achieving a re-fried status I sat down to some online poker and condiments, ultimately landing me in the condition of gastronomic unrest often accompanying such a tryst into hedonism. But here I sit, empty cup glaring at me with disdain and having been here only three of my needed seven-teen hours I have a few remaining to ruminate on how life offered me this stance and moreso, why I took it. It seems like at thirty things would subside and begin to take on a more mature and somewhat normal view, at least with regard to being productive and opting away from that 13th beer or 5th shot of Patron but alas, nothing thus far has prevailed in such a way. Although there’s a whole revolution to amend the habits and habitually reform the apathy to something resembling productivity, I don’t. Though the question still begs an answer as to what end this course of production will produce? Simply the killing of lazy days and easter parades or will it offer some mystical revelation I can’t imagine at this point because I have never remained sober enough to allow it to manifest? So many questions, is 30 really the new 20? Is this lethargy a hanging tendril of the extracurricular activities I have been participating in since high school or is it just a façade to beguile my own interpretation of self? Is my unwillingness to promote change or at the least a chance taken my method of normalcy, the normalcy achieved by complacency or the complacency rustled from the throes of improvement and opting for the path most trampled on the road to mediocrity? And the situation of the personal life is as muddled and without emotion as the bereft widow riding shotgun to the priest graveside with veiled tears and unrelenting wrenching pain, a constant flow of emptiness. The apparition of substance long since given way to the concrete angel of transitory figures and I do not cry. Other than the occasional earring shoe or purse left, there would be no way to prove their existence and even these material items hold nothing near to a heart as hardened as this one. Either hardened or so mushy from the past that it no longer has the will to reach and finds solace in the barren landscape of languid repose, melancholy and predictable. Is it odd that the seeming loneliness stemming from such a suture of the soul simply doesn’t come to me? The wrath of being without has been the blessing of being with so far, being with self, being with control, being with an ability to move without pretense, to shudder and wince without denial, to actively pursue the banal without trepidation. Is it empty, this fulfillment of minutia, without someone with which to share? I suppose for you out there sharing the minutia it may seem as such but still, for me, at 29 plus 2 days, I am at ease, appeased if you will, to sit and whittle away the hours in an offhand way.

Comments about 29 + 2 by dan hightower

  • Rookie Lime and Tequila with a Splash of Pineapple (2/8/2008 8:24:00 PM)

    Interesting read, this is kind of how a lot of my poems start. I type out stream of conscious about a subject. You can get a lot of good stuff down that way. I usually mess around carving away after that. Thanks for letting me read this. (Report) Reply

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Poems About Concrete

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