poem of the day 12.21.10

writing the moonlight sonata

i feel like
i’m trying to write the moonlight sonata
sitting here sweating in the cold
play acting
lying to myself
struggling this way
drinking weak coffee that tastes like dirt
lifting mugs that weigh a ton
waiting on the lunar eclipse
to break me out of this funk
writing the moonlight sonata is not easy
because it is twenty-four degrees outside
and the sports teams have let me down
because there is cat shit on the couch
cat litter scattered in the bathroom
and breadcrumbs on the kitchen floor
because there is wine on my shirt
spinach in my hair
and a whole week of work to suicide through
because the new paint is peeling
and the pictures of paris
are hanging crookedly on the wall
because the holidays never end
and holiday parties keep coming on like death
because the new year is readying its noose
and there are dull eyes to look into
mouths to hear talk such nonsense
because there is nothing left to do but breathe
and wish i had a brand new car
so that i could drive so very fucking far
away from here
maybe become a bartender in the southwest
until that too makes me wish that i could
slice my wrists
writing the moonlight sonata
is a sisyphean task
it is hell on earth
and i am here each morning
until retirement or the coffin takes me
scrawling notes against
the bleating of the alarm clock and the sun
wondering if beethoven
ever felt this miserable to be alive