I’d try to explain that my life is fine
except that it’d bore you.
If I open the news to page one or two
I’m going to thank the heavens that hell,
I’m healthy and that my freedom
is not being assaulted by a terrorist
or a foreign army.
If I turn to page four where the news with graphs
dollars and percentage signs are
then I’ll remember two things –
I’m neither broke nor rich
and that the struggle I imagine,
doesn’t really exist.
If I open a book I’ll be assaulted either with
words I can’t stand or words too inspiring,
overly sublime to the point that I can’t possibly keep reading.
If I read a few too many books I’ll eventually reach one
where I’m assaulted with sainthood and
the wrath of a changing, but static God
and if I read none and open up screens instead
I’ll become either the scum of the earth or witness
the cesspool of online bigotry running rampant.
I’m not a porn star, I can’t perform to that level.
I’m not a Hollywooder, a Footballer,
once in a while I can dress up and pretend
that I’m a celebrity wearing shades but quickly,
like one good album dissolving into the depths of
the same artists’ expression on another day
I’m forgotten, like winter clothes packed away
when the white fields evaporate.
I don’t stroke a poet’s book spine with a loving finger
I’ve too many to fondle, and many are opened and closed
with clicks and squints as maybe the words aren’t big enough
now too small – the white’s hurting my eyes
the black’s too sharp, I’ll go for Sepia but Word has an option
Some days I like to swear.
Some days I like to take issue with anybody who jostles me
or touches me on a subway train.
But every time I refrain from speaking out.
Culturally they’re different.
Intellectually they’re different.
Physically they’re different.
By luck and blessing they’re different.
Resist, racist, refrain, refrain.
Violence is never the answer.
Well – why the fuck not?
I guess one thing that I have going for me
is that I don’t like to drink, smoke
or strangely enough, despite how much I think about it,
I have few vices, yet I can’t help but feel clamped
and let sway me the feeling
to drift down to the drains.