over here or over there

she says
that i write
my best poetry
sitting on a
barstool,
where old men
confess their sins to
women who
they won’t be
following home

& i can’t tell
you why i’m
here,
hell,
nobody really
can.

but i guess it’s
loneliness
that makes us
stoop so low,
altering our
consciousness
to forget about
what’s real

yeah -
“where are the women
at?”
he asks me
as if i am the
shaman of
sex
but no,
i don’t do that
too often,
honestly

"over here
or
over there
somewhere
they’re surely
dancing”
i say
as i flick the ash
off of something
i haven’t quite
figured out how
to quit
yet

but maybe
it’ll come to me
one of these days
the secret to life
to happiness
to the universe

& it’s hard to
form your own opinions
when you’ve been raised
by televisions

"where is life
at?”
i ask

'over here
or
over there
somewhere
they’re surely
living’
i think to
myself

&
surely,
they are

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