When I asked him over beers one night
             what the meaning of life was, my friend Alex replied
             I agreed with him--how seductive, the idea
             that arbitrary cruelty might evaporate
             about writing poetry, remembering over
             and over again how everyone is asymmetrical then,
             heads huge and ungainly, limbs restless and taut;
             with the staple remover, the girl in the second row
             sizing me up with her jeweler's eye. In high school
             they used to show us films once a year to boost
             our self-esteem and keep us off drugs--lavish multi-screened
             presentations with titles like "The Prize"
             that offered soundtracks singing "my future's so bright
             I gotta wear shades." We are what we think we are, and one thing
             inevitably leads to another--drugs to sex, sex
             to cigarettes. A head leaning on a shoulder and suddenly
             you're naked, I'm naked, music washing over us
             like ocean, air conditioner making it seem magical. Even
             in the back of a Tribeca art gallery, the detritus
             of the party around us; here we are
             on a couch, making out high like high-schoolers in front
             of someone else's locker. Remember being the kid
             who had to get your lunch or math book, ask the lip-
             locked couple in front of your locker to move? Did you say
             excuse me, tap them gently? I never had that courage, shared
             a neighbor's book, bought hot lunch. But tonight
             we are as cool as our daydreams were then,
             magazine pages and mirrors, straight-edge skaters, drama
             queens, hair gods and punk princesses saying *censored* you
             to that girl in the second row. We're black-
             clad, smoking, the health teacher's nightmare,
             impossibly drugged so that when I touch your clay lips
             ...