Norman Door

The first pseudo intellectual I ever knew
was a clarinet player with tentacles?
I can’t remember the second one,
but when I try to, I can only picture
chalk boards with drawings of
stars and sporadic squiggles
that connect in the middle
to form black holes among the chaos.

Every day I make tally marks underneath
all of the tables I sit at, with my nails,
in an attempt to transfer some of
the empty anger into a vessel that can’t
call other people motherfuckers.
This often confuses the custodial workers
that scrape gum off places like these in the summer.

I don’t understand why people bother waiting
to turn left, when it always seems like there’s
an endless supply of cars coming from both directions.
Not to mention, that any possible opening
is really just an illusion put there by death, himself
to catch you early, so he doesn’t have to double back
after gathering up some other cunt with a head wound.

I was banned from my local cinema for smacking
another customer upside the face with a half-full
bag of peanut M&Ms that I bought immediately before
heading to the theater.

Since then my only entertainment has been
the front door to this law firm downtown.
People just slam into that thing all day, thinking
it’s a push when it’s actually a pull.
One time a guy even broke his nose,
I laughed so hard I turned left.

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