In Kinematics

After I read my old journals
and studied Alfred Jarry’s pataphysical tech writing
(“How to Build a Time Machine”),
I will have built a time machine, 
and I go back to October 1989,
and beat the snot out of my old self for his own good.

Of course I am older and in worse shape,
but I have the element of surprise,
considerable surprise.			

I stand over him blood dropping
from his mouth – like Time itself,
a liquid in constant rectilinear motion.
Behind me stands the glistening machine,
almost filling his rented room, 
ivory flywheels cooling in the luminiferous ether.

And I say, “I have just read 45 pages
of fragmentary dipshit poems about this woman 
all of your friends are warning you against, 

who, in my frame, is doubtless all strung out 
on Catholic guilt, grubbed money and lifelong 
bewilderment in some banausic suburb of Louisville,
and Sue, the woman you blew off for her, 
who didn’t seem quite so exciting?
Dumb.  It is a dumb.  And it will happen again.

Also, you cannot win in a staredown
with the New York State student loan people.
Also, if/when you stay up 56 hours straight

trying to figure out some obscure Buddhist shit
and in fact in a way succeeding,
don’t go out after that trying to find out
where the party is, there will be no party,
or, if there is, all the jokes will be at your expense.
Do you understand?  

Stop weeping and answer me!
How can you possibly understand?”  And suddenly
out of the corner of my eye I note

myself maybe age 75 scowling; then it will
be like the last reel of 2001, my life
a slapdash flick I thought at first was deep,
really it’s just confused, and right there’s fetus me
glowing in the laundry basket, me dropping
a wineglass at my Jewish wedding, mega-mega-

ancient me propped up in bed and pointing gaping,
and old me says to me (whistling a little
through his bad teeth) “Why are you so angry?

He’s doing the best he can, and furthermore
if he had not dicked all these things up
you wouldn’t be yourself, and you do 
like yourself, don’t you?  That’s what you always 
say, at least.  In short, please cease to feel so fucking 
sorry for yourself, you’re embarrassing all of us.”