I can't wait to be 19,
the age where hipsters become hipsters
and your cosmopolitan side begins to
radiate from your body.
You begin saying things like "I've been there, man,"
and flaunting your newfound cynic realism
as if it were an accessory from the Velvet Underground's tour bus,
because anything is better than 18.
Anything towers over that collection of 365 salt grains
that consists of taking a dive in the real world,
with your feet meeting the Jaws of America.
I am turning 19.
Alas, the beginning of repression,
where it's no longer chic to tremble with honesty,
so you begin storing it and saving it
for the hibernation of your Alvy Singer neurosis.
Goodness gracious, that's in fashion.
It's not you in the mirror.
It's you that's become deformed
by the mask that was pushed onto your face,
or maybe it was you flew into it,
I can't remember at the moment.
Anyway...your blood has had its last curdle,
and the car crash could be so obvious--
the engine would zoom past all their noses--
without the lack of humanity for medication.
You don't know what exists, and you're cold fucking sober.
But damn, it makes a great poem.