Old Poem from Fat Notebook

I have a little fat notebook which I used for a variety of purposes. This poem was the first thing I wrote in it, about four years ago:



I'm prone to forgetting, if it was one last item to be thrown in the bag

paddle case, the only two notebooks anyone would ever need,

a Chinese pear and a banana got to be one of the most important
a license for the drive there and back.

So leaves are scrambling like a forgetful fool in front of the Temple
guards, though they have very nice manners
and will let you enter with a smile and a signature.

I enter halfway blind but handsome,
and sit next to the blurry profiles of women, eating yogurt and wearing sweatpants.

She doesn't know that she's being written about and the same goes for her yogurt.

I'm alive-tired and so goes my eyes saying "where are the looky glasses?"
Stop being so dramatic and let us watch your front!

you do need us, yes, but not to write down in my little fat book.

I let the n/right si/ong [love] on but am in need of a change of place.

The benches aren't thick enough for me, even with my narrow butt!
What is this flat plank here at the windows? Which blocks all potential suicide jumpers? 

or base ones?

The sky is still pink, the Escalade on the Girard exit is still flipped
on its side, I'll bet, and the cops are cold.

Third page already? I'm not that creative ...  my head itches.
Professor Altimore's door remains closed as if it is still break
and January hasn't started, and I'm not yet twenty-one.

The sky now pale--whatever. That stupid, fat Escalade is still rolled over on its heavy side.
Speak of the angel, Prof. Altimore just stepped out of hibernation,
I like our awkward small talk.

Would you like to see how two people, one, a sociologist (I guess)
and one student of the subject, engage in the art of small talk?
Surprisingly, the same as everyone else would engage it.

At last I get a comfortable break--I mean--chair!

I need ambiance to stay awake, and for the pen to awaken,
and not hang so droopy. This is where the poem gets to be long-winded

and wastes an extra break--I mean page. God, how distracted I must be!
My gusto has busted:
This isn't only a book of fat poems, but of fat doodles! ha!

[here, a doodle of a very wide pig]