Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), and a chapbook, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press), are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and directly from the publishers.
Share your nightmares, the chemical impulses
that rule your slumbering body, the psychological
underpinnings of how your brain embraces the day.
I will listen eagerly, wanting to know you better,
to understand the fragile fears that build your
tentative house of cards that cower inside
the closetful of stylish and matching outfits,
the decoupage of personality you’ve glued
together thus far, colorful and sexy and wild.
Talk to me of the thunder that crashes your
expectations, the lightning that illuminates
the storms at the edge of solace, the story
of when the rock star stole your innocence
inside the luxury hotel. These are the constellations
we try to piece together, the ancient meanings
borrowed, blue, and wedded to the weather
of our ways, the peaceful circle thrumming
with desire that only our nether halves admit,
bark and bluster reduced to somatic quiescence.
Take it on faith, take it to the heart
We all wait for death, one student says,
as if they rise in unison, all Hemingway-esque
to daily declare, “Today is a good day to die.”
But you don’t. You are suburban children
of privilege. More likely you’ll wait the
agonizing two weeks for results
of your SAT or ACT to arrive.
Come fall, you will wait eagerly,
anxiously to hear from
the college of your choice.
As Tom Petty once reminded us,
“The waiting is the hardest part.”
You wait for your birthday every year,
waiting to see what special gifts
have come your way.
You’ll wait to see if your parents allow you
to go away un-chaperoned for Spring Break.
You’ll wait to see who will invite you to prom;
you’ll wait to see that no one is wearing
what you have so fashionably chosen.
You’ll wait for the light to change
(or maybe you won’t, as some suggest).
You’ll wait for some change, for completion,
for satisfaction, for amusement
to deliver you from dreaded boredom.
You wait for the bell to ring so that
you’ll be granted release from this
relentless grilling on the ways you
wait and the inherent weight of
the anticipation, the pause that
does not refresh, the ecstatic agony
invested with hope, the slow march
of time that propels us in one direction,
leading inevitably to prove that student’s
glib reply to be 100, from to be to
not to be. We can wait, you’ll tell me.