I browse through jobs that I
Don't want

Test Analyst
Engagement Leader
Enterprise Architect
Device Administrator
Knowledge Engineer
Application Consultant

I look through these meaningless
High paying postings
Dedicate a fraction of my life
To it so that I can accumulate
More stuff

Surrounded by stuff
Shelves and drawers full
Of stuff

My stuff grows exponentially
Like voracious kudzu
It smothers my space
Blankets my floors

It seems
The more stuff
The less substance
But even this simple reality
Doesn't hinder my want of
Stuff

After I die
My stuff will sit
In a room collecting
Dust and maybe some of
It will be worth some money
To someone and then they'll
Have my stuff and the person
Who sold it can go buy their own
Stuff and I'll be in a box in the
Ground and then
Finally then
I will become just another layer
Of stuff

Waiting at the train station
For my girl from new york
With my windows down
Sunroof open
My a/c has been on
The fritz for two years
Now, but you get
Used to it
Especially in a
Syrupy pennsylvania
August

A cherry colored pickup
Swings into the space in
Front of me and a middle aged
Guy hops out
And meets two others

They are speaking german
And cackling
The one is telling a joke
And dangles his hand
Off of his waste like it's
His ****
And they all laugh

For a moment
Every other sound
In the station is drowned
Out by their hard
Language and
Harder laughter

Another work day
As the hummingbirds
Peruse the bending
Backbones and
Wilting blooms of
The tall spider plants

White and purple

I was out the back door
On my way to work

I spotted a deflated balloon
Tumble-weeding across the
Back walk

I watched it topple
Lazily
Too crumpled and
Twisted in itself to
Move much

A strong breath of
Wind moved the
Shining, gaudy
Bladder up and
Off the back walk

As it blew past I
Read the words
"Happy Birthday"
Adorned with exploding
Multicolored confetti

I got in my car
And thought about
How much that balloon
And I have in common

Blame is such a
Contagious malady
It doesn't surprise me
That in our time
We both contracted
Terminal cases

I stopped being
Your son when I
Passed out at the reception
Spilling the pulpy remains
Of my 18th Mimosa
All over the table
While people were tapping
Glasses to makes speeches

You stopped being my
Mother when you
Told me you weren't
Making my birthday dinner
That you had made me for
26 years every August
Because it was more
Of a winter dish

You were my
Best friend when Dad
Was off banging his blonde
On business trips
When your daughter
Was off at college
Smoking *** and
Playing soccer on
A scholarship  

Inevitably
All things that make
Sense must be
Adulterated by something
That doesn't

It's a shame that
You had to seek that
Something out

Hungover in bed
Sharing last night's
General  Tso's
With one ***** fork