Chinese Suicide

Henry Miller had a point  
lost somewhere in his prose.  
   
Daggers  
     laced with fatigue  
     and modern living.  
   
Inside  
     the empty mattress on the floor  
     the cold showers in the morning  
     the crumbling flat at your doorstep.  
   
     ghosts riding in silence on the subway  
     biological clocks falling with the exchange rate  
     broken engagements and martini glasses.  
   
     the people who look and talk without blinking  
     and those who wish they would go away.  
   
Our stomachs,  
     stabbed with distorted reflections  
     while we bleed through the end of the day.  
   
     feel the gas fill up like a balloon  
     until it becomes too much to live.  
   
And we learn to wilt  
                  accept  
                  move on  
                  give up  
                  conform  
                  put down  
                  attack  
                  remember   
            and forget what it is  
that keeps us going.