by Coulter Jacobs

One a those nights where boredom
Is a bottle and pack a cigs
Yer girl went out in the jeans
You said she could only wear
When she was on yer arm
And a weird white pill
With the name Collins
Found its way inta yer
Innards . . .

She will always have
A way to dig up
The old problems
In a new argument

This is how she proves
Her point

Backing up her griping
With an example about
How you hurt her on Christmas
And here we are
In the middle of July . . .

But I sit here in her pad
Typing on her computer
Cause I got kicked out
And the keys look at
The tips a my fingers
First
Before deciding to type
These lonely words

It doesn’t feel right
It feels like brushing
Yer teeth with a strangers
Toothbrush

Like slipping into unknown
Dirty sheets in a drunken
Clownface bed at 4:30 a.m.

I look around at these youths
And lemme tell you:

I AM NOT ONE A YOU
I AM NOT ONE A YOU

AMONG YOU,
BUT NEVER ONE A YOU

Born wrong,
Too late
Into a world of
Absence,
A vacant slot
An old drive-in movie
Theater with two-foot
Weeds and spiderweb ghosts
Smackdab where the
Soul should rest quietly

The kids ruled by style
Style
Style
Style

And no substance
No substance
Or credentials
To speak of . . .

The kids whose eyes
Make all a tha decisions

Whose eyes see outside
But would never dare look
In,
Inta tha question marks
Inta tha broken mirrors
And dead blackcats mangled
In tha middle a tha highway
Of the tired, neglected heart

Neglected
Forgotten about
And disposed of . . .

I see these little assholes
Everyday here in Pacific Beach
And they have really convinced
Themselves that they know what’s
Goin on
Fooled by the So. Cal vision of perfection
The So. Cal postcard plastichead
The lies to sell
To sell and sell and sell

To sell

Deprive the innards of a caring glance
Cause yer the only one that can
See
The innards of yer own soul
The guts of beauty and mirrors
Oozing character and truth

You gotta figger that out,
Before imitating these dollarbill
Magazines fulla robots and green

I sit here wantin t change my
Whole face
My life
So gone,
Dreamin a tha view
From a chopped
Ford
Pullin tha sour glares
From old ladies
And seductive, curious
Glances
From their little daughters
Wonderin where the tattooed,
Wifebeatered, slickbacked
Cats in shades were goin next . . .
Maybe wantin t ditch tha green
For a buncha
Beautiful
Open
Uncertainty . . .

The uncertainty we all dress
Up for under the unknown
Brown moon
It’s that uncertainty that helps
The girls and boys
Look into that gone
Mirror
One
More
Time

One last cigarette walk
Down the boulevard
Into the familiar,
But somehow new bar
Fulla new nervous guts
And tingling eyeballs

The new faces,
Old faces made new
By a fresh beer
A newly matched
Kamel Red Light
And through the
Spiderweb of smoke
A new possibility on
An old, rusty night
Maybe the jackpot
Will flash
Cherry
Cherry
Cherry
And you could stand there
The winner of a cold nervous
Girl that will walk out the door
Two months later
With the new faces in her head
And yer old face thrown out in
The dumpster with the tallboy cans
Forty ounce bottles of charcoal,
Hornets, cobras, 45’s
And pizza boxes
With only the crust left . . .

But
I AM NOT ONE A YOU
YOUTHS of 2001
I AM NOT ONE A YOU

Have no connection,
And you will read this
In some cyborg year
2020
0r 2013
And say that you remember
These things
But you will be fresh outta
Yer suit and tie, with yer
Sorority girlfriend, (you married her)
Talkin about how wild you used to be
How dangerous you were
With the friends you paid for

I woulda hated you
I still do hate you
Are you reading this
You fuckin poser?

Have you even stooped as low as to
Say that you dig poetry now?

If yer reading this,
Poetry
Must be kinda popular
And I remember
Bein a young dipshit liking
This shit
Sifting trough the posterboard
Cutout
Intellectuals
And then trough the
Grad student knowitalls
(That know nothing but how to
read a book and spew vomit about it)
Then figurin out how to be alone

That’s the key

Diggin bein alone
‘Cept maybe fer Springsteen
Dylan
The Stones
Hank
Rancid
The Boss
Green Day
Marty Robbins
The Reverend Horton Heat
Social D
Maybe (if yer from ES)
Snap Dragon . . .
(So many others)
Rollin along to the rhythm
Of the fading smear of the
Bottlesmash sun . . .

Maybe I can keep these
Words in my fingers
Or maybe I’ll loose
It all hittin’ on
Sixteen . . .

We’ll see . . .

Pacific Beach
7-16-01
10:55 p.m.