poem of the day 04.24.10

saint layabout

i care more about
writing a good poem
than i could about
any kind of job
i have a lack of ambition
that startles people
they don’t know what to say
when i show it to them
i have a lost testicle
i haven’t even bothered to look for it
i can stare at a wall all day
and do it again the next day
i see people going
to the movies or to a parade
and i think why bother?
i let the dishes go for days
i wear what’s laying there
on the floor
i don’t know what a mop
looks like
or a broom
my living room hasn’t been swept
in three years
i’ve never cleaned a window or a mirror
the very act seems absurd to me
i stack books
when they fall over
i think they make a nice display
i’ll drink a flat beer
instead of walking to the corner
to get a fresh one
i eat the same thing every day
i wipe my ass with one piece of paper
i don’t make the bed
i let the mail sit
i’m the american dream incarnate
and i can see perfection in
a ball of dust
casually rolling across the room
on a sunny weekend
with the sun aching to get through
my heavy, drawn blinds