There’s no money in this game.

Ars poetica stands defiantly

against hustle culture, yet

I’m unable to do anything else.

—-

Knowing that poetry is

either completely deceased or the sole

surviving art form that’s left.

Schrodinger’s art and no one is watching

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Involuntary Silent Vow

It’s a constant tug-of-war

between the urge to completely vanish

and wanting companionship.

But when I’m with others

we are all just alone together.

They’re all waiting

for their turn to speak.

And as for me,

I never have much to say

just a lot of feelings.

And they aren’t that interesting.

Not saying what you’re saying has been, but

it seems to make you feel alright, and

I might be too polite, so

you can keep going despite my

uptight plight tonight.

It’s a tiny slight.

But trust I’ll try not

to overwrite you.

I might even bite

a few conversational cues;

try not to

hold it against you,

pretty sure you think I’m fine.

But I want to evaporate.

I feel me dissociate.

Who put that sound in my throat?

Now here’s the spiel.

You’ve built this

colossal, emotional reveal.

What am I supposed to do with that?

Smile and nod.

Keep letting you go on and on and

All I want to do is go.

I feel so separate

I don’t feel like I can connect

Do you notice my flat affect

I guess I’m glad

I can help you

through all this

I just wish

I could get

all my shit.

Get all my words together,

instead of “nah, NBD doesn’t matter,”

It’s more “I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Say it’ll be okay.

Seems like you finished, but

now it seems to late to start.

Finish up my drink,

doing better making sure

not to have too many,

get my coat and depart.

Sympathies for a young snowman

I can still remember

the miniature

Louisiana snowman

in the yard that day,

and how mother

told you and me

unfortunately he’d

be gone by the end of the day.

Even though we’d

prayed for snow

our entire young lives.

(Mine twice as long.)

He was just visiting

a place he didn’t belong.

You cried.

Loudly.

(Typical.)

Which caused father

to stir

see the scene.

Look to you,

look to me,

run over,

grab me,

shake,

scream.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Nothing.

But I’d never felt so small.

And his face was so red.

And his breath so hot.

I wanted to melt away

right there.

3:30 90°

In peak afternoon boredom stupor

reach the point where you stare into your

Flourescent LED ceiling bulbs

until the twin beams shrink and swell

as you shirk your responsibilities

looking and feeling like LSD except

less excited about the staring,

and sure you’ve never seen it

like this before, but a boring setting

is still just as boring turned 90 degrees

at least there’s irrefutably no reason

to expect there’s no one above pulling

your strings like a marionette

at least not literally.

Thank Christ, I’m not tripping

even though I somehow ended up

on the ground staring at the ceiling at 3:30.

EXCESS CSF

Barometric sensations

are generated from within

my calcified cranium

while the ureaesque

substance begins

to be pumped in.

Better to be

pissed off

than pissed in,

but not my

decision.

It’s both…

to my chagrin.

Breathe in

the benzene

laced air.

Breathe out

the existential

fear.

Feel lucky

that you were

able to get here.

Be thrilled

you’re alive.

That’ll be

$3599.95.