Bets are up, the rats are racing, and time is taking
itself so seriously I don’t even want to talk, like
get a life, or get a Walkman, the new ones that are so
expensive I would hate anyone who owned one and
My self-hatred has gone up since Christmas, so so
Self-consciously alone searching for something I can own:
a shtick, obsessive witch, a friend: the façade of being known.
I keep doing what’s already been done by living, so its no wonder
what I want.
Telling people no one can do it quite like
like, well, especially, beautiful, authentic — and the stars agree — You!
Me, I was borne with Sympathy Fatigue. My next move is almost
always a dice roll and the cards are a stained
glass window that hide the blood of broken neurons.
My physical stature led me to religion
so war is familiar and my heart creaks like chainmail
that doesn’t come through at all.
Comfort is such a lie, and I would fight it but the swords all rusted when I was fool enough to call it Love. He never Really Got Me anyway. My autonomy exists in wallpaper settings and pens:
Do not grieve, for what is lost will be replaced and
whatever is leftover is thrown out anyway. — Rumi, 1:46 AM 1/17/23
The mind is powerful and I wonder if I would have been more powerful, or gotten some more credit for spinning the wheel, if I had turned to something like money or fame. Or landed on it, anyway.
A daunting task, tackling an ego that would have been okay with any of those and left the Great Casino in the Sky content with the philosophy of Breathing.
I swallow blasphemy and piety the same way and I imagine that I have made something of myself because of it. At least this way, I can always ask some god for a rebrand.
Still — I can’t resist the things I hate, like choking down dinner in front of the television with my tired family, eating when I’m not hungry. But I love gluttony because it gives me another thing to hate, lose, replace, repeat……I stayed alive at Summer Camp and became an adult only
for fancy headphones I don’t wear and drugs I don’t take to prove something:
I wasn’t allowed to die then, so let it be sickness! It was a good, safe excuse: to hate the world and not be the villain too soon. I’ll prove them right again mostly because I’m lazy.
So I take another piece of bread, and fix my gaze toward the TV,
because it is a good way to ignore the feeling I have nothing to say,
and something like a strategy to keep proving it to myself.
