When I asked him over beers one night
what the meaning of life was
my friend Jon replied, We all think we�re ugly,
but we�re not. And for once
I agreed with him�how seductive, the idea
that arbitrary cruelty might evaporate
if everyone felt beautiful
in their own skins. I went to talk
to the local eleventh grade class
about writing poetry, was reminded
how everyone is asymmetrical then,
heads huge and ungainly, limbs restless and taut;
the kid in the back row hiding behind a curtain of hair
carving swear words into his arm with the staple remover,
the girl in the second row sizing me up
with her jeweler�s eye. In high school
they showed us films once a year
to boost our self-esteem, keep us
off drugs�lavish multi-screened productions
with titles like The Prize, soundtracks singing,
My future�s so bright I gotta wear shades.
We are what we think we are, and one thing
inevitably leads to another�drugs to sex, sex
to cigarettes. A head leaning on a shoulder
and suddenly you�re naked, I�m naked,
air conditioner washing over us like ocean,
moon shining off the brick wall in the back
of a Tribeca art gallery, the detritus
of the party around us, trance music spinning
on a turntable, making out high like high-schoolers
in front of someone else�s locker. Remember
being the kid who had to get your lunch or math book, ask
the lip-locked couple in front of your locker to move?
Did you say, Excuse me, tap them gently?
I never had that courage, shared
a neighbor�s book, bought hot lunch. But tonight
we are as cool as our daydreams were then,
magazine pages and mirrors, straight-edge skaters,
drama queens, hair gods and punk princesses
smoking in the back row, the health teacher�s nightmare,
impossibly drugged, and when I touch
your clay lips with my iron fingers,
trace your beveled collarbone
with my fluted mouth, the tune I play
pushes hallway lockers open with gale force.
Uneaten lunches and uncovered books fly,
everything slams, and blinded
we all get a good, fluorescent look at each other.