Of all time  in history I could have been born,

I'm here on  a computer talking to imaginary people
in   a box
with  wood-grain carpet

and a tv with a   nondescript latino face.


What does it even mean to be a human?

What is pain?

What is genius  when it all takes     is a **** salute,

or saying the obvious?   Or just loving one another?


Why does hate always get a bad rap?


Where  is  the exit?

where is   the promise,

   where is      the sensitive eyes        in     the    deadair room

with 3 chairs


where is my   participation trophy?


where is my  diving board,
my knitted sweater,
  cellular phone, comatose giraffe?


who's back do i scratch?
who's bed do i make?

where are you parents?

where is  

the end