lost in this
with no way of going back
we find ourselves lost in this
in darkness blind
in ignorance paralyzed
lost in a great between
floating somewhere
between piece whole
between man mankind
lost in the labyrinth
up against a wall
with no inhibition
something roars in the dark
lost in illusion
spellbound by abstractions of being
of morality
of purpose
lost in the void
numb from isolation
sleeping waking
staring at the ground walking
lost in ourselves
imagining patterns
connecting faded dots
memorizing rhymes
lost in everything
staring at the stars until our eyes blur
we glimpse the world
as it is
lost in this
we live blindfolded
delusional in happiness
hysterical in depression
lost in this
we have been blindfolded
here in this ongoing wilderness
there is no going back
here in this pit
we have suffered
we have struggled to breathe
we have tried in vain to see the sun
hoped with every inch of thought
that it will find us
rescue us
from the ink we have survived in
we have survived in this
we have existed
searching
for something beyond this
something boundless
vivid
true
i took some bukowski to driver’s ed
it was our
last
the teacher,
mr gillian,
might have been
sleeping or
using
the internet
at any given
we had been
led to
believe
we would be
taking
a
test
this day
but mr
gillian
did
a charitable thing
and let us
sit
around
and
twenty minutes
passed
as i waited
for
the
bus
from
the other high school to
our bus had come
from our h.s.
to the
career center.
kids from the other high school
came
to
driver’s ed at
the career
center
too,
and
the other high school was
much
farther
away, so
i
sylvia
and
margot
arrived
and walked
into
class
together, as
they
always
had
i had
turned sylvia
onto
charles bukowski
by
accident,
corrupted
she bought
love is a dog from hell
after i
came to
class
one day
with
ham on rye.
she was
she was
she always
dressed
margot
was also
a good
one,
though
she
might
never have
really
taken
to
i let
her
borrow
the catcher in the rye,
figured
it
was
close enough.
we
talked for
a
little
while
and
we began to
pass
around
the book
i had
with me,
you get so alone
at times
that it just makes
sense,
and we
started
at the
beginning
and read
the poems
from there.
another guy,
zack,
good fellow,
wrestler,
came over
to
talk
to
us,
and we
pulled him
into the
he
read after
margot and
didn’t read
very
well; he was
quiet
and
monotonous
but still
a
good
after
three
rounds
or so,
i
started to
give
my
turn
away
to
this kid
named
mark
who had
probably
never
read a poem
before
in his life.
he
didn’t
like to
read them
but he did
because i asked.
he sped
through
every line
and
slurred
his words
and just
got it
over
i gave him
all
the best poems.
then i handed the book
to this kid
tucker
to read,
and he read
a little better,
but
he came to
an
f-word,
completely lost
his train
of
thought, and
read that line
three times
as the
kids
surrounding him
said,
“whoa, is that
really what it
says?”
“oh, god!”
“i didn’t know
poems
cuss!”
after that,
two kids
started
to
argue
(i think
someone
said something rude
about
mark)
(the teacher had
gone to get
coffee).
the
class
entered
this
argument,
the kids from
my high school
and
the kids
from
the other high school
yelling
at each other,
“hey, you
better
watch your BACK
before i come
STOMP your ass,
bitch!”
“hey, you don’t
mess with
MARK; you’ll
mess with ME
FIRST!”
i did it, too:
“hey man,
you
better get
the hell out of
DODGE
before i come
FIND
you!”
tensions were high.
we sat
quietly
and
margot
shared her crackers.
sylvia and i
passed notes,
drew cats,
drew people stirring pots,
drew staircases.
the bell rang.
we
left.
10:46 a.m.
the hallway is flooding
and the tiles seem made of bones—
i don’t know how i got here.
i think i may faint from sheer loneliness.
footsteps go unheard
within the 1,000 footsteps of the
crowd, hoots and howls sounding,
couples leaning against the wall
either arguing or making up—
every word a separate paroxysm—
voices whining, spinning
& shaking.
faces carry so much that
you can nearly see their secrets
hidden beneath the skin,
pale under fluorescent ceilings.
whispered between sound waves,
the noise is homogeneous;
the noise is static made of
this guy at his locker wears $200
tennis shoes & as he puts in his
combination he says to another guy
in $250 tennis shoes,
“i had a chocolate chip cookie cake
it was pretty good.”
his friend smiles, looking at his own
fingernails, his mind elsewhere,
the footsteps growing louder.
Luis Neer is a young writer of poetry and prose. His work appears/is forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, The Write Room, The Rain, Party & Disaster Society, and elsewhere. An alumnus of the creative writing program at the 2014 West Virginia Governor’s School for the Arts, he attends high school in New Cumberland, West Virginia, where he lives.
