i'm doing better than my ex
...
i think

I never asked to join the rat race.
But being a cognizant participant of the
perpetual scramble
I've noticed
it seems
we're always neck-and-neck,
nose-and-nose--
it's me!
No, *******--
it's you--you're winning--oh,
wait--it's me again!
You!
Me!
Him!
ME!
you,
him, me, you...
Is this a marathon we're supposed to sprint?
Are  humans even capable of doing that?
Or... hamsters?
I slow down and become a fat ******* lump,
moving slowly, and yet somehow,
there you are beside me still.
There is our row of hamsters wheels,
and here is our imaginary race
to a finish that exists in an industrial dream.
The soul resides in the breath
we can never catch
as we are racing--
You're WINNING,
I'm winning!
You, me, you, him, her, me... again.
And again.
And again.
For efficiency's sake
we race in a row.

It’s not a rule forever followed,
But as a rule,
I don’t write novels.
Tales told in fiction
Rely on reality for sustenance
and I don’t want to confuse you
with my world
that is always flipping,
whirling,
re-painting,
re-modeling,
and put simply,
always changing.

I’m so for you my
heart turns at quandaries like
thoughts of your eyelash

Memorize poetry—
Wonder what you did that for—
Time is currency.

Inspiration strikes like lightning--
Wait, no, scratch that.
I’m really trying hard not to be cliche.
Inspiration strikes like the common cold:
It creeps up slowly and dreadfully
Until I’m spewing snot out of my nose
And coughing up nonsense for a week.  
That’s actually a bit more accurate.

How often do you catch a cold?
Once a year.
Maybe twice.

Currently I am writing uninspired;
Linguistically constipated.
Maybe I’m just a bad writer
Or maybe the act of writing was only meant
To punctuate my emo phase
Because then I was a teenager
And the possibility of living off of poetry
Was only a fun idea
And not a requirement.

How often do you think about money?
Just as often as
Everybody else does.

It’s (almost) as though artists
Must continuously invite sickness
Into our lives to remain active creators.
I’m sabotaging my immune system
So that I’ll be sick enough
To see the world as a tyrant
Who can be brought to justice
Only through the power
of my martyred voice.

It’s society making me sick,
Not me,
Why would I do that to myself?
I’m just trying to make a living
The best way I know how.

High school graduate,
you look down, I gasp,
I am not wearing my heels!

Blinking middle age
word ***** is everywhere
Diagnose the flu

So, I’m drawn to your religion
On the basis of aesthetic.
I want to feel the way that
Golden, plump, laughing Buddha
Feels without having to read the stories.
I want to embrace the wu wei--
Whatever that means--
I want to sit criss-crossed
In the long, naples yellow grass
With no ticks.
In the orange afternoon sun
With no nighttime.  
I want to worship at a smoky altar
And feel the arms of
My Goddess wrap around me.
Hear her voice: slow, smooth, but stern.
“Thank you,” for the sacrifice.
I want to be divine--God
Gaze down from the Heavens
And take pride in my light
Like I am your son;
I want to be free of the burden
Of my humanness,
Lifted,
Cleansed,
Purified.
I wish to be free of desire
And so it is the desire which ails me.
And I curse nothing more
Than I curse my hungry heart
And my faulty mind.
Lifted,
Cleansed,
Purified.