the gods have spotted me
in the estuary of dreams
and they laugh at me,
they torment me
with their unresponsiveness
but I must outwit them
and I mustn’t let the gods
decide my fate
and the fate of others
lies in the hands of others,
it’s there prerogative to decide
what to make of it
just as well as it is mine.

if I decide to squander the
rest of my days conspiring
for the words of immortality
then that is my privilege and
if the time comes
when nothing comes
from it
then that is my outcome
but I must write everyday
with assertiveness and
guile as if one day I’m
going to tear this job
down brick by brick
before the dogs from
hell come for me and
tear me to shreds but
if my doing is a waste
then our jobs are similar.

we work hard,
make minimal and
produce nothing
that goes to waste
for a profit and
eventually
transmogrifies
into garbage
and no one even
seems to bat an eye.

someone spent time away
from their loved ones,
resenting the minutes that
are massacred by monotony
during the dull, senseless hours
of moil with the other working
stiffs who are hand-picked by
someone else, having to take
a **** and breathing in the
smell someone else’s ****
as a piece of them dies slowly,
all while barely making a living on
base pay just so the product they
manufacture is conveniently
available at your fingertips
but nobody ever thinks
of what happens to
a crashed car or
a candy bar wrapper or
a half eaten hamburger,
it just gets scooped up
and tossed away
without mulling over
or questioning.

but no matter
how remarkable
anything may seem,
everything has already
been written including
this poem and the next
one after but much like
our lives, it’s a waste,
it’s not as much of a
shame that we waste
our lives but that life
is wasted on us and
what we do with it is
anything but extraordinary
and all this is for nothing,
just another add on to the
heap on Garbage Mountain
so the raccoons that defile
this poisoned Earth
will finally
come
to collect