do something

the door is closed
i lie in a sugary filth
i dream of international politics
yet
the possibilities remain unheeded
the apathy in the air
fossilizes the skin

do something different
than you’ve done before
maybe it won’t leave you
empty and hungry
and lying in a cheap
sugary filth

do something or you
will be frozen in
time,
gasping for breath
with stone lungs whose
efficiency is massively
degraded

do something at all and
push a wave into the
maddening ocean and
try not to cringe
when it comes back
changed by the distance
and its intent foreign

do something so they all
stop staring.

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it’s best for me to be asleep
as the world spins too fast
and alltogether now
sometimes you just gotta give up

the grass holds my footprints
degrading the vista, for you
and i wish i’d not have stepped there
not have wanted to even at all

i told bowie to drop his guitar
told antonio to quiet his strings
and i quieted, too
finally because no one was listening

it’s best for me to be asleep
as the world damages so
and sand will cover me up
and time will be the great communicator

Friday Morning in the Universe

I wake up late,

again.

I think there’s birds chiming from nests in rain gutters sloping off the roof.
But it might be telephone pole construction at the end of the block.

This window, blinds included, a sorry excuse for shade.
Winter sun blazes my unopened eyes like interrogation lights.

Sweaty. Smells like…. sweat. And stale spit.
Fissured lips, sandpaper tongue, copper to taste.

Paper due in four hours and twenty five minutes.
Won’t start before the stars and sun’s rump come out to play.

My DNA, stacked, circles the world a 100,000 times could care less
about removing hairy legs and atrophied cheese toes
to swing, stretching, jerking and groaning
like some prehistoric poultry: Eeeeyegeahhha!

With thoughts like, “How did the Catskills get their name?”
did a cat really kill someone and if so why didn’t they just
name it after the cat’s name or maybe it didn’t have a name
or maybe it’s the skills of a cat. Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid – what’s going on today? Just fifteen more minutes.
I’ll skip breakfast. Shower? No. I’m going to be hungry.
But tomorrow’s Saturday? Here’s to hoping.

l’apathie absolue

the elephant in the room
is that your mother is dying
from a cancer

and your heart follows the
rain,
down through the gutters

apathy is a warm blanket,
your body is a cold machine,
all around you a million shades
of grey paint pop-culture
pictures that disappear when
you look at them like
all of the fake-stars in the sky

there are few words left for what you see

you put your art in a grey can
and give it a stupid name;
this survival is an encouraged
and repugnant greed
and is the cancer itself

beauty is right behind that elephant.

one day i will find a suit that fits

no…
i don’t feel that bad
i told you i’d leave and
that is that
and so for a moment i feel
nice at home
i guess i quickly get tired
of the open road
really i care less about
what happens or not
all these people they need
to go and get shot
cuz when it looks to be
something you know you are wrong
and that apathy seeps under
your sheets after long
so somewhere oh somewhere
a beautiful girl is wanting me
or there’s some drugs to do
or explosions to see
but even at this point
if i took to the sea
drove across country lines
to get somewhere finally
there’d be something there
to drive me right back here
to think about what-if’s
and cower in fear.