i'm writing not at all
anymore, i can't see the muse
in the window sunbathing i can't
feel the metaphoric euphoric quixotic
skin tingles and heart twinges
all i can really give is number crunches and
vague philosophical conundrums pounding
against the door against the wall against
me and not ever connecting, not ever coming in.
we want to be famous, to be god-heads and idols
surviving crumbles and skyscraper topples as the
horizon blurs and the center of gravity shifts
east west north south up down and out the last tunnel.
home is full of heroes, hell is full of homes
we aren't much help. the romance is waning, the birds
are bored, spouting aimless clarinet solos in the pollution morning
commute, commute, come clean you hate your family, job,
car, computer, schedule, children, religion, upbringing,
and the only reason why is because none of it
gets you closer to anything remotely resembling There.
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