[ED NOTE: I haven’t the foggiest when this was from, but I cry a lot more now, am a hell of a lot less cynical, and oh dear me how *it* happened. Like nothing I dreamt of - So that’s nice. The editor also pardons his use of ellipses, which is some sort of…. ridiculous habit… he doesn’t think he is about to break.]
———————-
I have very little to say….
Very little to care about.
I care about paying rent….
or is it a need?
Dimly lit, open air, still too squalid –
or am I too cynical?
Ostentatious settings for ostentatious clients
Probably with the typical asshole management.
So where does it leave me?
Metaphorically-realisitcally-literally
backed into an empty corner of the room.
Silent chair, scratching pen furrowed brow.
Sometimes I make up things;
tawdry love affairs
last chances and last kisses
sometimes it happens.
Sometimes I realize how lucky I am
with remarkable support and love
an empty pocket book.
Then I feel ill…
& question what it’s worth.
Sometimes I write for focus
other times a light relaxation…
often to be vain….
to be seen writing –
or so to tell others —
I’m a writer.
Self induced psychosis
laden with guilt –
false superstition
never looking up-
Prying eyes from the mission at hand
looking away later-
understanding what I missed.
This never made much sense to me- at points I thought,
I knew,
was convinced….
it must help me somehow…
and peering into falsified madness,
creating trauma – orchestrating life
never seemed to be a way to deal.
It might have perpetuated the lack – total lack…
WHAT THEN??!?
how does it necessarily help???
And there are other questions…
Why do I sweat cold,
why does my stomach hurt –
Can I sleep and why then do I choose not to?
Why don’t I cry more?
Why am I not in Love?
When will it happen to me – to stop this….
ache-
sadness.
When will the void be filled by one
more substantial.
My mouth, pasty & sand filled
Ahhh… is it gritty to the end.
Maybe time to ask for soup and some sourdough.