september

Summer is ending
Like the departure of a dozen Polish girlfriends
Leaving behind subtle normalities,
essay deadlines,
afternoon classes.

There is no great tragedy
Just as in the first breaths of June air there is no different possibility
Except that cliché old summer belief that
everything
is about to happen.

So we are taking refuge in small excitements
Alligator dreams dragged from Richard Brautigan novels
to paste upon the afternoon,
Dostoyevsky novels varnished to bathroom walls.

Oh, and we are planning dreams of buses.

These are not thoughts that go anywhere.
These are cheap 3am abstractions
which we muddle through in portish hazes,
Barely recollected plans the morning brushes away
with the thick tongued breakfast fuzz,
trying to get over the festival come downs
which splice the autumn air.

Perhaps we should put on hold our Septembers
Rest early nights and study harder and dwell in the realm of recuperation
For some other madness
Some new year
Some party where strobe lights will save our soul
and we can press our ecstatic faces against pa systems
(always: louder)
make out in darkrooms
and scuff our shiny blue satin high heeled shoes.

Until then, there is this:
a typewriter, a synthesizer, some Hegelian theory
and a king sized bed
for the afternoons.