I awoke to the absence of life I'm fond of;
Whose conditions merit my apathy towards suicide.
Found a cup of coffee in the ***
waiting, begging, to get poured out.
The feeling of a railroad spike driven into my skull
has worked it's way from the
back right section of the dome
to my left eyeball.
Lovely.
I am at one with all the bullets,
the dead hamsters, bent silverware,
tacky ties, and broken fingers,
the world over.
Floating between the gravitational pull
of two great monuments.
A mutilated Zen.
My personal handiwork.
I want to stand in the ruins of one success.
Instead I'm vacantly taking aspirin,
finally okay with giving up.
Quitting.
I don't want to be an artist anymore.
That spirit stapled to the spine,
entwined to the softer parts of the brain,
pretending to be a dream.
Give up.
Giving up is the scalpel for
Quitting; self lobotomy.
I don't have a surgeon's hands,
but I'll settle for a surgeon's success.
In dark sunglasses. The distance.
A nameless faceless paycheck.
Sipping on a bottle of ghosts
to maintain a mere apathy.
I don't sleep well.
