bohemia

I like the word 'infertile'

it plunges sorrow greater

than any word

I have scanned of papers.

in the morning

I am at my highest point of futility

the three bouquets of flowers I have been given

for doing something 

I didn't really DO

except

wait for

to happen

arent dead yet

they are withering

but aren't fully dead

I waste away the hours between watching my face and eating breakfast and there

isnt

much mystery to anything

anymore

neither

is there 

appeal

I dont know

really

I dont

and I respect

the great unhinging majority

that I find hard to fathom of people

my age

my small

under 2 decades

microscopic

dismissible

almost

laughable age who actually

in full blooming

stamina stuffed

faces hard against the wind knowledge

of most of it

I dont know

and so help me god I dont know how

they know.

some few months

almost

a year and half away

I use to

think about things

like the bohemia movement

or

the beat poets

or

the romantics

the french revolution

the great depression

1920s Paris

and I use to die and I use to ache

because

I was here

and there was nothing here

people here cant even get themselves to admit that maybe

maybe

I 

paying all this

money

fot my 'great education'

are not really learning anything.

but then I stopped

I stopped thinking of Gertrude stein and

john keats

and

allan Ginsburg

and the heart wrenching entities

 of life

and animation

so

helplessly

out of reach.

nothing

nothing

nothing moves here

nothing bursts

here

nothing

all things

inanimate

all things

infertile.

maybe

this is a perfect place

for a

'movement'