FUCKING SISYPHUS
o, I'm gonna tell you
what really turns me on --
it's someone tapped into
the lost art of a lost cause
someone giving up
on the whole lousy world
and then choosing to go on
knowing there is no reason to do so
but the doing.
Fucking Sisyphus, man!
nothing gets my panties wet
like a man or a woman
haevy lifting some god-forsaken
boulder up a mountainside
besides
watching them chase it down again.
This is not the same as
tripping over the same stone
I like deliberate futility --
going in with eyes unveiled
to the purposeless purpose
Sisyphus had his eyes wide open
he didn't trip or fall,
I know. Because if he did
i'd be sure to be underneath
him when he did.
His eyes were open, and seeing
he knew his path all too well.
O, if you want to woo me,
tell me about your apathy
how you woke this morning
with a choice between
a shower and a suicide
and decided to get clean,
opened the windows
to let the morning air in
before taking yourself up
the hill again--
and I'm in.
You, shaking your fist at the wind
hollering at the fall leaves falling
putting caterpillars into therapy
telling them they don't have to
change
writing poems into torn napkins
and asking me
to
stuff those words down my pants.
Anyting useless, outrageous,
that asks too much
takes too much
and I'm all
blush.
Fucking Sisyphus, man
O that's what I'm thinking about
alone in my bed tonight
with my left hand
between my thighs
and my right hand
on this pen,
getting off
on this poem.
-Jeanette Powers
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