Arguing With Myself Over Sushi
Standing in line for buffet sushi
when an adult-looking version
of my adolescent self
emerges from the body
of my current self
scornfully asking if I’ve lost myself
causing me to crumble my fish roe
into a tray of Tuna roll.
I think about telling
the unburdened version of myself
a defeated man
can bleed enough
to change the world
instead I relay
what I learned about love
after a poorly crafted double date
love lies at the intersection
of Science and Art
when the integers and perspectives
have been
mapped
you may end up marrying
the woman
who is currently
trying to bang
your roommate
but if you keep your compass pointed north
there is reason to believe
you can be more than
the life the universe delivered you into.
Considering your devotion to myth
I surmise
philosophizing with you
would be like the relationship
between masturbating
at Thomas Paine’s funeral
and a tree falling in the woods
if there’s no one around
to debate the metrics of morality
then who’s gonna fucking say anything.
Stricken with a sense of superiority
I assert the high ground
drawing a dick vacationland
across the pimpled grill
of my immaturity.
Waterskiing
dicks
cutting the wake.
Dick golfers fighting sand traps.
Volleyball dicks
spiking the line.
Consumed by the desire
to outgrow the limits
of my vocabulary
instant karma
taking agency
from some theoretical
form of alien limb syndrome
still not having realized
I’m using the same words
just holding a different flashlight
my younger self
reversed directions
taking the marker from my now self
drawing havoc causing dicks
across the goofy man-face
of my maturity.
Dick pilots bombing
the intersections
of my perfectly creased brow.
Pirate dicks pillaging
the astute fields
of my engaging cheekbones.
Dick ninjas descending
the cracked lines
of my auspicious nose.
As my immature self retaliates
drawing dicks on my current self
the drawings appeared
on my immaturity.
The outward expression
of my inner moral argument
layered with dead fish
& avocado
finding common ground
in the unsympathetic
language of dick jokes
confident
that even though heroes
make better sandwiches
than people
there is no way to tell
the difference between
buffet sushi
and enlightenment
without being willing
to get covered in dick drawings
and fish.
©2023 Jeff Taylor All rights reserved.
Jeff Taylor lives with his wife and kids in Massachusetts where he has been writing poems since the late 90’s and hosting The Garage Poets Open Mic since 2020. Jeff has performed at universities, theaters, festivals, bars, coffee houses, and sidewalks across the east coast and to global audiences online, you can find his work in recent issues of Bombfire Lit, Ethel Zine, Oddball Magazine, as well as upcoming in anthologies from Read or Green Books, Cooch Behar, and Alien Buddha Press.
