while dying in the name of some struggle, I thought (p.)

I wish I had more to climb to, 
smoking this three-inch joint, 
my days are generally confined to 
promise of decompression and occasional 
renewal of meaning. 

I sure didn't miss the largely consistent 
shitty music in Burger King this 
morning (...last night was the second 
since I thought I could sleep at 
 the church...) 

the sun's painting music like 
a careless whore on New 
Year's Eve, vegetable- 
rigid jelly. 

to the gods of sanity and modesty, 
 I say: 
fuck off.
let my contempt for your existence 
arrange the course of its dismissal. 

this painfully-red octopus choking afternoon 
whistling thru the thorns of its condition: 
I give what I can. 




**** 

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