What Am I Doing Here?
9 a.m.
and I'm looking for my glasses,
looking for my house keys.
I give up
and sit before the window.
Numb but breathing.
Today, as every day,
watching all those below
huzzing to battle,
rats with their asses
cut off
trying to
"get stuff done”,
whatever that means.
My aunt keeps writing me asking
why I don't write back,
asking
why I don't come and visit.
What is there to write about?
I don't get it.
I am ashamed of this world.
Truly, madly, lividly.
This cesspool of phony desire
clinking pocket change
daily minute by minute, self-deception.
This den of warriors with
greasy guns and potbellies.
This bordello of bootlickers
and sweet-tongued, snake charmers.
Most days I sit in bed
sucking on a watermelon rind
waiting for something to happen,
something REAL to happen.
- the fresh smell of lilac
- a child's squeal of delight
- a light breeze
to waff through the window.
Not happening.
Just the always whine of a lawnmower
churning through the manufactured beauty
of the golf course across the street,
the hum
of my mind
and those below,
going about
their busyness,
betraying this world
one second at a time.
I've had enough of it all.
I guess I should
get out of the house,
go visit my aunt
and apologize for not writing
because
I have nothing good to say
and
if you can't say something
nice to say,
you should just
shut your god damn pen
up.