Sunday, November 11, 2012

trying to make sense of my present


The plastic mattress sighs, 
these pinstripes not nearly as loud as the others'
with midriffs out, a contour of abdomen or "fitting in." 
The thin walls offer me bass, but I am reluctant; 
more honored by the piss-beer I've opened 
bought with poor earnings of the delightful,
the sugar-coated, a servant for the rich.

My days are tired, so I lounge reclusively,
bored with words and pixels 
or empty readings; mostly of myself. 
The exquisite self that I refuse to believe
claws in and out of warmth, my dreams. 
If night stays black, where are my thoughts?

Neither here, nor there.
I have counted coins to throw in 
a well or a pot; both a gamble. 
The addict seises to quit.

Culture overwhelms me.  
I place myself at the nexus of youth and absurdity
uninterested in either or maybe just ignorant.