I am a long time fan of the moment

I sense my heart beating a steady 40 beats / minute

I entertain gravity with my body,
occupy precisely its volume,
hold its exact weight at all times

The rest of the world is excess space,
across the Midwest mono cultures,
down the trailing beak of South America,
up the tundras of Mars

I know of an old, fat-bellied man, half a man,
in suspenders,
– scared of the sounds
the grotesque tenement house makes –
who's been denying himself
across the tundra of his life
at least since his early Twenties,
composer of beautiful poems of hate
towards me, for showing him;
I'm happy to inspire!

He has always told himself NO,
hiding like an insect in that concrete tower,
surrounded by the noise of subway trains
up for air
and the endless rubber-rolling streams
of inter-city highways;
a hellish environment,
all his money left untouched,
staying on, all his misguided life,
in that student hole, alone,
repeating frozen expressions
and stale proverbs,
retaining a pure cowardice
up in his Eighties

Soon he will die,
without ever having lived,
angry
at everyone but himself

He gave up on himself early on

He doesn't matter, he anti-matters

I, however, am a long time fan of the moment

I sense my heart beating

I entertain gravity,
occupy volume,
all times

The rest is excess space,
across the Midwest,
South America,
Mars