by Steven J. Serafiani

I am a critical human being. My past
lovers knew this yet
they stayed till the end; a
slow methodical critique of the
things they could not provide me,
that no one could provide.

I am a loner. I prefer a jazz roll and
typewriter punch over conversation and big
to do’s. My friends
know this and don’t invite me out
anymore. They know the no. I do make
appearances though, in the way that
washed up actors make appearances
at low rent conventions. I do it for the
currency of material punch.

I do not date much anymore. My parents
know this. The who are you dating has
lessened as they have learned their
lesson. Nothing compares to the woman I
have in my mind. She revolves; and to
the women that try for coupling, it is
not even a fair fight. She’s got class.

I eat lunch in my car at work. My
co-workers know this and have stopped
with the where should we go eat
today. I’d rather stare at my cigarette
smoke stained visor than bullshit about
tube shows or what their dog did over the

I stand by myself at parties for the most
part. Other attendees know this. I’ll drink
their booze and eat their food while
looking at picture frames. Get drunk
just enough and then make a pass at the host’s
best friend.

I am an asshole and I know this. Well, not an
asshole per se but rather a critical loner who
prefers solitude over