this is not a poem, this is a thank you note <br /> <br />frankly, i don’t have fun anymore. <br />the marrow has been sucked from all my bones. <br />i consider it a good day if i can go to bed <br />without crying myself to sleep. <br /> <br />those stories you heard about me were all <br />the result of liquor-fueled post-adolescent rebellion. <br />i was the crazy drunk guy i had always wanted to <br />hang out with in high school, but i never knew his name. <br /> <br />all those crazy stunts you witnessed a year ago <br />were the final bleats of a bugler’s bugle, <br />who desperately felt there was a new war within him, <br />on a battlefield grown over with weeds and abandoned. <br /> <br />the posthole piercings in my body have scarred over. <br />the makeup has been washed off of my face <br />the nail polish has flaked from beneath my cuticles <br />the clang and crash of drum machines barely ring in my ears. <br /> <br />as we sat chatting that night in the flashing nightclub with the <br />patrons spinning around us, i put away every smiling word you <br />said in a safe place to cherish later. and, as i listened carefully, <br />i swore i heard that bugler’s defiant bugle calling me to arms.<br /><br />Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thankyouverymuch/
