the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
life is hard enough
without the need
to start over
every damn day.
i wake, tired….
you are asking a lot
to ask me to
care about others
when so few other
care about me.
i keep hoping to find
that secret crime
locked inside my head,
that heinous act
committed against me….
some people can afford
for life to be unfair.
literally.
i cannot.
i cannot pull out….
you pick your god,
and i’ll deny mine,
and the other 7 billion
lost and hopeless
will do as they choose….
i have to admit
although i was
genius enough
to invent
a time machine….
“i have never been free
to live my life!”
sounds like the kind of
hyperbolic nonsense
an angsty seventeen-year-old….
when they said
i was too old,
that i was
useless & uncool
and no longer….
i still want my life
to mean something
in a way
that relieves me
of responsibility….
have you ever wondered
what it would be like
to be the world’s greatest
living human being
who ever lived?
i do not believe
in myself,
which makes
being myself
living my self….
when i sit
in the hoped-for quiet
of my practice,
only two things
disturb that quiet….
i need to talk about
the people who have
treated me so badly,
and i need to name names.
no one deserves….
i have my story,
and it is my story,
and it is me.
i fear my story,
and i hate my story….
i think my dreams
are tired of me
telling them
to shut up.
dreams are not meant….
