Ending this Post on a Good Note

by G.T.

Well the poetry police didn’t come for me like yesterday’s third recipient threatened to do, so it’s back to the poetry game, a.k.a. the dope game, a.k.a. literary hustlin’ (payment is in the form of insight, not cash – unfortunately). Here’s another day of block poetry for all you hood-ass, gangstas. Pardon me, I’m listening to DMX right now, and it definitely influences my mode of thinking.

Kajetan S. (339) – He goes by “Kai”, which is convenient, because I have no fucking clue how to pronounce his first name. Kai’s a fraternity brother; one of the upper-classmen when I showed up on campus. My only personal memory with Kai was sitting on the front porch of our house, drinking bottles of Stella Artois on a Sunday night. He’s a good guy, but a quiet one, like myself. So I never really got a chance to know him, much like he didn’t get an opportunity to know me. That beer on an August night was really our only interaction together. That wall, no longer covered in that thick layer of creeping vines I loved so much. The grounds crew on campus tore the vines away for some reason. The sight of them gone saddened me. At 3:40pm.

“The brick wall
is bare for
the crawling
vines have been
torn from the
root and the
leaves pulled from
the mortar.
Now the house
is without

I was outside, having a cigarette with my coffee. My phone begins vibrating, and I expected it be Kai. The expected response these days is, “who is this?” I doubted he would have my phone number.

3:45pm, Aug: “Chinese food and shit seem to have more than a biological connection”

Does Aug send these off-hand observations to me only? Well, I couldn’t imagine him sending a message like that to his girlfriend. That’s my purpose as a friend: a recipient of uncouth insight.

No word from Kai, so I thought I’d give him news in a more literal fashion, since he’s back on the East Coast.

4:21pm, Me: “They tore the creeping vines from the wall of our house’s entrance.”

Kai must not care about the loss of those really nice looking vines.

Kayla K. (708) – In high school, I rarely got together with friends outside of school. I spent my teenage years under a desk lamp, writing, writing, and reading on occasion. Once I got my car, Senior year was a different story, but I went out a couple of times during my Junior year. One of the first times I went out was with a group of friends to a Chinese Buffet.

Again, what’s with all these Chinese food references in the last few posts?

There were six of us: A guy I had never met before, but is now an acquaintance, Ryan T.; An obnoxious jackass by the name of Joe D.; previous poetry recipient of a couple weeks ago, Grace L.; and my friend Mike P., who picked me up at the dental office my mom worked at during my high school years. Accompanying Mike was Kayla, who happened to be somebody I had never met before. I was nervous to meet her, because my friend Theresa (who was dating Mike P. during high school) wanted to set me up with her following her breakup with her high school sweetheart. Kayla sat across from me at the buffet, and for the first time of my life, I was eating as mannerly as possible. I never made a move that night, though, and after dinner, when everybody wanted to go to Guitar Center, I instead went to PetsMart to buy food for my baby turtle.
During the high school years, Kayla got back together her boyfriend, Dave G., another old high school pal of mine and, if you regularly read this blog, received a poem a couple of weeks ago. Every morning during my Senior year, Dave and Kayla would arrive to school in Dave’s truck, and the two of them would walk to my car, and we’d sit in my car fifteen minutes or so, shooting the breeze and joking around about this or that. The front seat of my car was spacious and tidy, however, the back seat was riddled with coffee cups that I would toss back there without regard. I recall Kayla having to leave the back door open, because the coffee cups had accumulated to such an extent that she had no leg room.

Sorry about that, Kayla.

After high school, I’ve seen Kayla every now and then, usually when we’re both attending a party or getting together with a larger group of friends. I should mention that she’s likely the only girl in this fucking world that gets sarcasm, too. At 4:17pm.

“Thoughts lead to
nothing more
than this one
ashtray, cracked
at it’s base
but hidden
in heaps of
gray nerves and
awry composure.”

I didn’t hear back from her, which I could understand. I happened to have told Kayla about this project shortly after I began it, so perhaps she didn’t want any replies posted on this blog. Understandable, and that’s sort of one reason I’ve tried to keep this text poetry under wraps. I don’t know how some people would accept having what is presumed to be a personal correspondence posted publicly on this blog.

6:54pm, Kayla: “Hey sorry I was at work. I was wondering if/when I’d get a poem ha.”

You don’t answer your phone at work? Half of these poems I write are written when I’m on the clock. What am I suppose to do? Work? That would explain why Kayla can actually keep a job, unlike myself.

7:12pm, Me: “You got a poem, too? That asshole George won’t send me one.”

Sometimes I just wanna punch George in the face.

7:27pm, Kayla: “What! That is an outrage! That’s too bad because he’s a very good poet”

What an awesome person! And Kayla, too. She’s cool.

7:38pm, Me: “Well, at least you got a poem. I know that he was excited to write one to you.”

7:52pm, Kayla: “Well I really liked it. I have a little trouble deciphering poems but still enjoyed it very much”

A flawed person, enraptured in his thoughts and indecision. I was smoking a cigarette while writing this poem, staring at my amber tinted, glass ashtray.

That was such a nice dialogue about a very cool friend in my life.

The third number on my contacts list is that of a stormbringer of negativity. Somebody who is halfway to insanity and tries dragging the world down with her. It’s not worth mentioning until another time, if ever, because I don’t want to end tonight’s post on a bad note. Enough. Go out and enjoy the evening before you wake up with a case of the Mondays.