At twenty-six, I am self pre-configured
My every action the fulfillment of some future prophecy
At twenty-six, I found the first white hair in my beard
I am the words in my own obituary
The horoscope on the eve of my conception
At twenty-six, I am really too self-absorbed
I say 'I', 'In my estimation', 'to my mind', and so on, too much
At twenty-six, I've fired a gun and shot some food
But not a man, not a president
I self-congratulated a survival through snow
At twenty-six, I am underestimated but still a braggart
I am still gallumphing along hubristically
At twenty-six, some days I feel pale, tired, washed out
I've seen some things, too many goblin junkies' glinting eyes
Too many heresiarchs, too many mobs
At twenty-six, I weigh less than I did at twenty-two
I talk less than at twenty-four but more than at seventeen
At twenty-six, I could die quite happily, saying
Well, I've see more than most see their entire lives
At twenty-six, I'm destitute, hopeful, cynical, strange
At twenty-six, I'm honorable, vagabondish, can hold a gaze
At twenty-six, I'm gyroscopic, I'm juggling, I'm running
At twenty-six, I need to move as fast as I can
To stay on my feet, at twenty-six
YOU ARE READING
When You Can't Go Forward And You Can't Go Back
Non-FictionThe thoughts, thunks, imaginings, phantasies, poetry, prose, essays and wordspasms of Donovan Volk, a despairing activist-writer who survives on eggs, potatoes and waxy apples. Much if not most is taken from life. When the author is not sitting in...
