friday night options

Got out for awhile.
Dragged myself out to a house full of drunk women repeating themselves and being generally awful.  Although I am not weeping alone about hypothetical children and a million other bodies, i'm not entirely sure which is the worse option.

in this

in an instant
in an hour
a chasm of infinite depth
opens between us
and our voices grow quiet, silent,
drowned by the enormity of the gulf
and hundreds of undead voices
(they do not stop)
echoing up from the dark
a dark with no bottom
and all i hear are muffled voices
and everything goes black
and all i see is red
and the dark of the depth
consumes and surrounds
and destroys

who am i
in this


?

almost broke

watching a man wait for his dog to poop in a yard today almost broke me.  it was an overwhelmingly depressing experience.  there he was-- standing in drizzle, slumped shoulders, with a plastic bag already posed and ready on his hand.  palpable ennui.  and it really did just about push me over the edge.
the futility of every single thing.

maybe i'm just sad today,
maybe it's the rain,

but seriously--
it was almost too much for me to handle.

break

i'm either more motivated by an anonymous public audience (that is no longer reading)
or
i've been very busy

someday i'll get back to the words
i'll let you (who?  no one.  absolutely no one.)
know when

know when
no one
know one
know no
one when

bunk

history is written by photoshop

hope and change

everyone high on their horses
-experts everywhere-
when the truth is

control is an illusion
on all levels,
i think

some people would probably crucify me for not voting today.
i am not a responsible citizen.  not a true american.  i have no right to complain.

ya ya ya
one of man
y man y many

more like
idol voting
(call in for whoever you want
it will cost the same)
fanatic
tomorrow we will wake up and drive to work
hope for no accident on the freeway
change the date on the calendar
a new day
"let's get this nation back on the right track"
what track?  where are we going?  who are we, anyway?
we doesn't feel related to me much at all
bound and bent toward futility
balloons will go up in some room or another
confetti will fall down on some floor and some shoes
and four years,
like seasons,
will follow.

i am walking slow to the car
filling up every single minute
with hope of my own
a we and a me
and a small universe,
drawn on my wrist.

time after time

necessary.  slow.

sometimes near impossible.

i live in a house full of clocks

that do not work,

but i still look up at them from time to time

as though they might be ready to talk.