...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjLPrumG3LM

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He thumbed through his recent drafts

As though he were 

Turning the pages 

To an immaterial, local newspaper:

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Rent's too high;

Premier looks like a d****e-bag;

Mayor, mayor;

Cops, cops;

Car crash on 4th; 

Oh, look...

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There was a riverside bouncy castle last Sunday.

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Neat.

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He determined that he wasn't sad enough

For there to be any good news, anything worth 

Ripping out, folding into little squares,

Setting aside for a scrap book,

Placing with magnets upon the refrigerator door. 

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He wasn't sad enough - un-devastated -

And every time he wrote, or read, 

Or made a motion to gaze 

In wayward contemplation

Over the balcony, towards the mountains,

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He found his eyes, and his lips,

And his once careful, fluid fingers…

Reflected this static sad-less-ness -

That he could create nothing 

That moved the soul. 

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And so he'd sit on his back porch,

With a coffee, a smoke, and make 

So as to take a bite -  

As he did many times before - 

Out of the apple that was this landscape.

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His teeth found purchase, juices escaped, 

But when its flesh touched his tongue

And after working it around, 

He found it didn't really taste

Like anything.

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