Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.* - JB

My inner resources have collapsed.
I am officially in a rut.
I am terminally bored.
It's like dying over and over again
but never quite getting the job done.
A strong change is called for.
Perhaps I'll cut off my head,
take up ballet or start a hedge fund.
I could take a road trip
if my car wasn't 240,000 miles
toward dead and it wasn't winter
and if I had any money.
Pawn shops don't pay well for poems.
Sadly, all those conditions prevail.
Which means my chances of escaping
boredom are limited, which is boring.
I realize boredom is my fault.
In my case, it is the San Andreas fault.
If I owned boots, I could pull
myself up by my bootstraps, but I don't.
I wonder if the Buddha was ever bored.
All he ever did was sit around.
If so, perhaps I'm really not bored.
Maybe this is really enlightenment.
That's a truly terrifying thought.
During the war life was boring but
dangerous. Sad thing to pine for war.
Guess I'll just surrender to this
redundant, monotonous splendor.
If I wake up tomorrow, things may improve.
If I don't wake up, they surely will.

  ~mce