Eyes open,
split like my mind’s broken.
Spilling out all that I am,
like a ripe melon
in the hot summer sun.
Body doesn’t listen.
Just complains,
like a vain teenager,
but with twice the problems,
and half the virility
on a good day.
Lungs strain to breathe,
the air that sits so thick with smoke
that even a brief
weekend in Kiev
would seem a reprieve.
At least they know
their government is corrupt.
They know they’re at war.
They know who their enemy is.
Here it’s just buzzing hum
of millions of mewling quims
venting on smart phones
that make everyone dumb,
and getting revved up
on Venti lattes
from shit coffee houses.
Each person claiming
their virtue signal is brighter,
and brighter, and brighter,
until they all catch fire.
Isn’t immolation
the gold standard?
Blink away the smoke,
but it doesn’t help.
This morning crawls forward
like the opening credits
of some sad remake
of “Groundhog Day.”
Same bullshit.
Same job.
Same problems.
Too many bills,
and not enough money.
Too many miles,
and not enough gas.
Too much to do
and not enough hours in the day,
and I have dreams,
but I can’t sleep to reach them.
Fuck it.
It’s sitting there,
begging me to swallow it whole.
A little, black pill.
But I know
the moment it’s in me,
it’ll unfold
into a small beetle,
that will burrow deep into my brain,
nesting near the reward center
and laying a clutch of eggs.
Soon,
I too would become
another drooling, consumer stooge,
feasting on Uber-Eats and
regurgitating episodes
of vacuous Netflix binge watches
in an inane, bulimic cycle,
until next election season.
No hope.
No joy.
No more dreams to miss.
Only test patterns
where my eyes used to be.
A loading wheel personality,
constantly trying to reference
some pop-culture moment,
instead of living,
breathing,
fighting,
feeling,
fucking.
No.
The black pill goes down the drain.
It’ll be back.
They hand these things out
like candy at Halloween,
which starts in August, now.
Fuck.
Wash the ashes off my face.
Shave.
Lift my chin,
and head out.
Because, I’m not going down, yet.
I’m not ready.
So, if it all burns
it’ll be good for the soil.
I’ll be here
when next spring comes around
ready to grow
something good
in all this chaos.
DJR – 2023
