On Working

Blinded by
fluorescent lights,
bruised tic-tac
overtyped fingertips,

an imagination crucified
by letters and photocopies,
mailings, stamps,
useless titles like

President, CEO
Dean and Professor.

I am who am.

Not here.

I say fine when asked
"How are you?"

but really
I'm passionately suicidal,
'cause it's the only way
to feel something relatively
called human
while clocking 9-5

to pay the bills,
to buy the food,
to watch the TV.
to get a good nights sleep,
to get to work on time
to keep typing someone else's
ideas.

I'd rather be staring at pasties
in a seedy strip club,
getting drunk on moonshine
in the backwater woods of Virginia,
sailing on a raft lost
in the pacific,
soaking in every breath
as if it's my last,
riding a bike around
the circumference of India,
smiling at homeless people
in Brazil,
catching butterflies in Kansas
with a net torn with holes.

It's got to be better than this.

I've got 57 minutes to go,
1710 exhales that sound like sighs.

The patrons of hell
have nothing on me.

Reviews

[T]

You're an amazing writer. But you haven't posted since 2008. I wish I could read your more recent work

[Penlady]

Take that brown bag you brought your sandwich in and blow, slow and easy. Your poem tired me out beautifully wanting more.