The Procrastinated Man

The Procrastinated Man
sits,
slathered in sonombulance,
slovenly soiled with sex

(ism)

only slightly strong slightly silly
sallow sanguine strutting cheap boots and a ten dollar haircut
He waits in the wings for no one.
He waits.

The uprising may
or may not pass
chaos math only works some
of the time

imagine. the perfect butterfly fart.

imagine the sun and the sea
ripples tear themselves across froth and kelp
white streaks roll in fastmotion
build us a temple in front
of the sun.

and as you float in great quiet on the perfect horizon
imagine life as The Procrastinated Man.
deepen it below the bottom of the sea.
heighten its awareness to the very edge of the skydome
and you may get an infinitesimal taste
only then if your taste buds are on their
tippy toes.

Mind you, the man isn’t lazy
Ask him, he’ll tell you.
The Procrastinated Man says:
" . . .
“…wait."

it’s the waiting makes any other sort of man crazy. They can’t seem to take
time and patience
He sees not all but most knows not most but some feels not some but none lies
well.
not none.

(And I do mean man. There is no such thing as The Procrastinated Woman.
That is an oxymoron.)

The Procrastinated Man ponders pot proliferation while he
reads clippings of pandering Norml members performing political hari-kari in
push -up bras and PB&J luncheons.
“At least,",” he thinks
“they could have served ramen."

The Procrastinated Man says
“Fuck the feather duster."
He slums in spit and mucous and eyesnot
fingers splayed, nails encrusted with mallow
lines already blackened with the day’s soot.
A ready fingerprint stares him in the face

He is envious of its
cold hard logic.

They come to listen for wisdom for insight for a pillow for a shoulder.
They come.
They come one by one seemingly endless singlefile down the throat
one by one they tell the truest stories the
real live ones
one by one they count the stars in minutes until they can no longer function
one by one they rest their souls on the table to breathe in
the smoke chamber
one by one the heartworn sleeve takes a salty bath or the
blade is twisted another degree or the
lemon juice drip is began again.

one

by

one

The
Procrastinated Man says

“time and patience.”

The Procrastinated Man
...
… waits.

The Procrastinated Man by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.