He parked his too-large automobile
in front of craft shops, wondering
who was watching him, who was judging
his journey, looking up slightly
at the seventy-three hundred
addresses, thinking about West and East,
thinking about which way was going
up so he could find the place. He knew
going in was a chore commanded of him
through a very brief moment of self-discipline
while knowing that this is the last place
he would ever want to go.
These people
are not the people
he would ever choose to be with.
The daily commute had been tortuous
for years. It had been part of his insanity
incubator, his car had become the prison
that had fostered the growth
of the most severe anger at the most
inconsequential things, not a violent anger,
but a fearful one, an anger that starts
with being born, an anger that starts
with his parents, but not an anger at them,
an anger at what they had given him,
all of those disgusting genetic defects.
.
stillfugue 
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on January 27, 2013 - 8:33 pm
This is more than a poem. It is an introduction to a novel. And one I would continue reading.
#2 by Carl on January 28, 2013 - 9:57 pm
You are perceptive..this started as a story, but I keep getting frustrated with my story-telling, so I turn it into poetry of some sort or another. Thanks for your comment.