This just may be the oldest poem on the page.

Written in my college days, the inspiration was Doc Nagel's drunked-up wife-to-be, Kim. She and her roommate were wandering the halls of the dormitory we lived in, about 3:30 in the morning. Kim was drunk, but her roommate was God's Own Drunk, I mean completely hammered. The roommate got it into her head that they needed to go out and find guys, reasons and motives unspecified, and Kim was there for - ahem - moral support. My own roommate at the time had made one of those "he's out" charts, with gag activities for what we were supposed to be out doing, and one of mine was "drinking to forget" (the indicator stayed on that one most of the time, mainly as a joke). The guys next door had a James Dean poster hung just inside the room, so that when their door was open, Dean's steely gaze commanded the hallway. I was half asleep, and when they passed, Kim said (words to the effect) "Hey, maybe Jim's in? No, he's drinking to forget." At which point the roommate began screaming "WHERE'S JAMES DEAN? WHERE'S JAMES DEAN?" (The door next door, you see, was closed.)

Ten minutes later I called Chris to tell him that I had just written the world's first Existentialist Lust poem. He called me an asshole and told me to go the hell back to bed.

PS: The David I ask if you can see smiling back at you from the other mirror-side of reality was Dr. David Amante, Ph.D., who, in addition to being one of the greatest poetic theorists of our time, has (or, at least, had) the best coffee cup in the world. It bore the slogan "Trust me, I'm a doctor."