Friday, September 30, 2011



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


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


writing poems into torn napkins

and asking me


stuff those words down my pants.

Anyting useless, outrageous,

that asks too much

takes too much

and I'm all


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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