Aged Thirty-eight

Creativity
1

At 51, I look like 38,

appraised by younger friends with whom I hang

on karaoke-pizza night for addicts

downtown in godless treatment where HP

can be a chair, a doorknob, anything

and YouTube music blares on black oblong

For all my life, I’ve been more comfortable

among the younger set, not my own class

I think because I look like one of them;

my mind is sandwiched ‘tween two generations,

one phasing out, the next is phasing in

while my blood and soil are stretched across the Pond

I get to see from my unique position

old codes discarded, favoring the new

uncertain ones, themselves to figure out;

morality feels lost, all but abandoned

but found again in every graduation,

in every college try, the human gene.

6/2/18

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I’m 28 soon. I get id’d still for nicotine products

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My grandmother died at 72 without wrinkles

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Weird, tonight I went to a Dead Milkman concert. Felt an odd disconnect, yet I felt in some weird way similar to what you expressed in your poem.
I forget how old I am all the time.
But i do not feel that reckless abandon of youth either.
I think that maybe schizophrenics feel a weird immortality and feeling of being outside of the constraints of time, and a odd sense being extremely volatile at the same time.

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Haven’t seen you in a while. Nice to have you back.

Thanks for responding to my poem’s tone of disorientation, uncertainty; of feeling lost at sea. I don’t know any of the same songs that younger people do, making me a dinosaur of rock ‘n’ roll. They listen to Nickelback while I pull old Rush out of the archives. It is a disconnect, but a lot of the principles are the same, and being rediscovered by the young. They think it’s something “new,” but it’s as old as ancient Greece.

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33 and feeling 42 or more, especially now that I rely on a crutch for mobility.

I find myself looking at 65-75 years olds who walk around with their canes and catching looks of sympathy from most of them, like saying that we recognise each others’ daily struggles. My crutch made me part of the elderly club and, much though I hate the damn thing, this is the part I will miss if (hopefully ‘when’) I get rid of it, that look of sympathy from elderly peepz and the weird feeling of empowerment that it gives me. Like the time a casheer asked me if I was retired (meaning, if I was on benefits, I look like a twenty a something otherwise, I am told) and I proudly told her I am too young to depend on the state.

Also, this oldish looking thing kind of makes me feel like I am saying to the world “I’ve been through ■■■■, but here I am, back on my feet”.

I sure as hell will be glad to be able to walk again with no aid, but part of me will miss that statement my crutch makes when I walk around with it.

Weird, huh?

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