Searching

Games of the World Series

An intrusive thought: I am not a Cubs fan; just want to route for the loser

I am a loser, searching the screen, eyeing a woman in a jeans skirt in a bar

So sexy, TV. Elements of guilt. Facebook. Fly out to center.

Facebook, addicted already after six weeks. Maybe just compulsion

Don’t want to get up to brush my teeth. I can stop any time I want

The reverse of yoga. On my side, the Indians’ logo looks like the middle finger

Look really hard. Wait for a close-up. This is the opposite of church:

Smiley commentators, Simpsons commercial, Fox Sports, Camry, Cancer

Campaign ad. Cubs win. Facebook. Time for bed, face tomorrow

Maybe another night on the couch it’s warm enough flick the light

TV fucked me again without my consent. Nonetheless we cuddle

Our feet tickled by the waves mixing with glowing sands

Not long ago, when the wind and sea crashed together at my feat

I would have told you--I told myself--there was no way to be, except unfettered

By force of skull, the way nails cannot budge from timeworn boards

When you’ve sniffed the sweat of children tying bedazzling carpets

Been to Hemingway’s bar, or heard cracks choir up from a frozen lake

Sailed the bays of far, pumping the iron of globe, but feel numb

It’s the medication. The testosterone levels. It’s relationships. Stress        

Facebook. Midlife. The imprints of bygones, an irreducible congestion

Search, I tell myself, real hard. For Solomon’s wisdom, through his ruins