The poems aren't faring very well
today.
The sky looks tired
and newspaper headlines
speak of a girl who went and got her head
chopped off for no reason
at all.
I guess today's not too good
for any of us.
On the way to work I stop by a bar
and decide to stay there.
The people in the bar look the way people in bars
have always looked.
They talk too loud about the same things.
The same jokes are etched across the condom machines:
This gum tastes funny.
The same man sits in the same
corner and talks to someone we can't see.
I buy a beer for the girl with her head
chopped off and we talk awhile until she gets
bored with me and says she has to go.
I ask if we can meet again
next week and she says
she doesn't know.
I drink 4 more beers and walk
home.
How are things with you?
You've got sadness
in your veins
instead of blood.
It's alright.
Relax
and feel it
flowing through you.
You can't get rid of it
anymore
than you can get rid of your own
skin.
It will exist
as long as you
exist.
It's in the air.
It is the air.
It is the sadness of everything
that was
is
and is yet to come.
I tell you
it's alright.
Have another drink if you like
as the dull and rusted
blade of existence
cuts
straight through you.
Relax
and savor
the sensation.
It's all you've got.
Lately it seems
we've run out of uses
for ourselves and for each other.
Me, I sit here and can't think
of a damned thing
to do.
Someone said life is just a long proccess
of becoming tired.
My face in the mirror tends to agree.
But
I think about being dead
and figure soon enough
I'd weary of that
as well.
The options seem rather
limited.
The rest of the people
don't appear too concerned
about any of this.
They walk around.
They talk to each other.
Go to and from
work and school
and other places.
They make it all seem natural enough.
Maybe I ask too much of things.
The sun still feels good
and girls in dresses still look good
as they walk beneath it.
I concede it might not be wise
to ask for much more
than this.
But at least it helps to
pass
the time.