Black Pill


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.


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,






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.


Wash the ashes off my face.


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

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