and the radio d.j.
won’t quit
talking about the
beauty of the sun
another day comes on like a virus
in this box that has no plot
i look at pictures by van gogh and feel nothing
look at author photos
on the backs of novels
that should’ve been declared D.O.A. on arrival
and feel the cold passage of wasted time
there isn’t much to do really
except sit and listen to symphonies from the dead
passing between the news of horrors
in a violently redundant world
suffer the inability to carve words from the air
as the talk of chipper fools outside my window
leaves me salivating like the damned
people here have been stupid, ignorant and self-serving
for hundreds of years now
why should today be any different?
sometimes it’s an emotional battle
just going to get the mail
because you worry who you’ll run into
another sad suck stuck in the mouse wheel
of doing the same goddamned thing every day
i think of all of the places in this world where i could be
and none of them stack up
to being wrapped inside the sheets on the bed
prostrate and numb
days like this are still births
and to think of all of the people who’ve gone too soon
while here i sit soaking up the oxygen
with my indolence and complaint
life is madness and miracle
life is random and cruel
it’s good parking on a saturday afternoon
a wreck on the highway during a hangover morning
it’s the next line that won’t come
as the dogs begin barking a harbinger of doom
and the old cat hacks her warning
while i kill another fly as the coffee turns cold
and the radio d.j. won’t quit talking
about the beauty of the sun.
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