I walk through these rooms
in a house that is not quite a mansion
there is leftover meat in the fridge
there is golf on TV
I slide on the calloused soles of my feet
Something about memory
I think I am losing my memory.
When I was a kid, they said things like
go out and play, the day is too beautiful to waste
but on sundays it was too much, not because I longed
for church, not because I hated the sunshine or lying on the grass
not because I was tired or sick from saturdays
not because I had nothing to do
there was too much to be
abundance of opportunity
I live in this world that does not change
If it changes it is only in one direction
My perception will move to that of a homeless man
I will let myself skip the shower
I will not eat.
I will ride the train all day and mumble about slavery
I will sit against a wall and stare at my feet.
I cannot change the conditions that I see
can only be who I am in them
and maybe without them, I am not.
What if I could pretend in an authentic way, I mean not work for someone eight hours a day
even if I were poor. Could that happen?
I see poverty all over the place
and nothing happens to stop it
in a number of ways, if I suffer, then it is my fault.
But if I am too unhappy to stop it?
What if I see the half-empty, the broken, the lonely, the fraudulent,
the sick, despairing, the tepid, disingenuous
what if I am unable to separate? To draw authentic lines in my mind,
on paper, in granules, by the pound?
To send scrawls on stationery in an envelope by the mail?
To tie my shoes, to eat with a spoon, to fire off another email?
But I have lived in too many houses, walked in too many rooms
ordered too many books
I have too many debts that will last my life
my reason for getting up is that I already feel the weight of the earth above me
that space that tells you you’re not younger
that palace in your mind that you now see in ruins
when you close your eyes and think hard on the worst possible doomsday scenario
though the thing you want least is to be “that guy”
the more entertaining you are
the more value you add to your human family
who conspicuously consume
and repeat things because they ring pleasant, because they sound tragic, because they define
poets aren’t much different from politicians or historians
an occasional phrase will sound like another
mostly it won’t though we think that it does
and we will shuffle again our papers, being mindful of the noise
on sundays I will not shuffle papers
I will not in fact make much sense at all
no need to go ecclesiastical
we’re all aware that when it rains you stay inside
now for a commercial