then buzz off to populate and over-conjugate pretentious phrases,
and maybe strangulate the feel from any real feeling,
before it breaches surface from the depths of any bottom,
call me simple simon? it would be a lie,
but that simple guy offers me a fresh tissue each time
i sneeze or cry,
even after i’ve ripped out another fistful of scalp over the why..
so, thank you simple guy
–Woe S. Meaman
*poem loosely based on an ugly truth from youth. A friend and I would oft see a well-groomed man with down syndrome on our daily bus to school. I knew this man from my street and was aware he headed off to work placement he was pleased with (from our random, neighbourly chit-chats) This chap was courteous to others on the bus, often giving up his seat with enthusiasm over the chance to be a bit of help.
My buddy would mercilessly let slide, snide little side comments about the guy ever squeaking from his tight lipped smirk. Hardly the pinnacle of virtue at that age, i become fed up on one day, during one ride and said to ‘friend’,
“Wow, look at we…bench hogging over-fed, under-worked drop-outs, stinking of lazy lays and pot.. mawkish of the person too content with who he is and where he’s headed to notice we exist’. Then i yanked the string and stumbled off the bus just a few breaths before getting seasick.
drifting back to those bus stops still leaves me queasy and doubting that i learned a thing from it.