There isn't much to be said
About the day time-
Hour after hour, we beat on
Against the ticking clock
Of complacency,
Until before we know it-
We're ****** into the realm of
The halfway living.
Awake past midnight,
Processing the happenings
Of 9-5,
As if draging them out into
Language
Will increase their potency.

There's nothing more moving
Than yesterday,
After a night of fermenting in
Our desperate minds.
Often too late to be felt
Before 10pm.

Reality is too much with us.
Pushing up against
Our trembling palms,
As we reach out
To ******
The manufactured idea of
Happiness. Prepackaged
And with an expiration date
Beyond the next year.

We try to find our fate in tarot cards,
Palm readings, grocery market bargains, expensive haircuts where they only take an inch off but you still cry, second rate ballets and strip clubs, the words of others, and Sunday services past 12 where the hangover isn't as dreadful.
Experience junkies,
****** fiends,
Attention addicts,
Compassion parasites,
We **** the marrow from the earth
And prescribe her with Ritalin
And 3 months of sick leave-
The placebo effect has never seemed
So enticing.

Is this what it's like to talk to God?
Newspapers from last week
Find their way into the warm,
Sticky floors of the subway:
They have no purpose here
In this cool, indifferent future.
Bold headlines prophesying drought,
And lamenting those already dead,
Alongside ads for half off
A large pizza, and 25% off your biggest
Problems. Classified ads
And the sports section
Reek of ***, failure
And vulnerability-
No one cares, now.
The past is only real within the proceeding hour,
And middle school history class lessons,
Too optimistic to hold
Any reality beyond repetition.

Lifeless, we seep through time until
The pages are soaked and soggy with
Our failed ambition and twice baked
Love stories that grossed a billion dollars
For the movie theaters, gas stations and diamond companies-
Condensed into romance novels
And nonfat ice cream:
A testament to a nation
Afraid to feel anything that isn't synthesized
And discussed in tabloid magazines.

Sideline poets and actors,
We rap our knuckles raw against the railing,
Nervously counting down the seconds
Until we will be called to dutifully recite
All we know.
Waiting, we count our blessings.
The cumulation of good deads and sacrifice
That have paid the dues for a one way ticket
To the promised land.
Little children, again,
We twist the frays of our sweaters
And buckle our knees with anticipation
Of judgement day
And Memorial Day weekend.

It catches in my throat
I try to scald it down
with a nonfat latte- no foam, please
but a resilient hairball like this
is latched on tightly-
a gila monster attached to the
sweetest ****.

My sentences are choked and can't-
the stares beat my face, I lower
my eyes only to feel the eyewounds
lash my back and a striped cardigan
offers no protection.

I curl up and twitch just like
that dog I once (or twice) kicked
dark in a closet or under a bed
and wait for salvation but no one ever
comes and eventually
I have to deal before the SWAT
team catches me with tear gas
and I cough up lizard after lizard.

Wake up to the pounding in your head,
Whiskey and regrets make for a mean hangover.
Three Advil's, a smoothie and 45 minutes throwing weights won't fix the evil inside,
But it will allow for yet one more day,
Of this sad blemish you call life.

Suited up, don't you look nice?
You hide your weakening smile behind your Starbucks tall half sweet nonfat double shot wake the **** up latte.
Strut your stuff,
Male model martini,
Sell another lie,
Buy yourself time,
Swipe another credit card.

Don't look that homeless vagabond in the eye,
Lest you see the need there,
And feel your own, answer in kind.
Rather make a crass remark,
Throw the keys for your overpriced sports utility vehicle to the valet,
And ***** about the mayor cleaning up the streets.
You pay your taxes,
You give to charity,
You've done your part to end world poverty,
These little lines go through your soul as fast as the ******* you've snorted,
But with less effect.

Your empty voice barks all the louder to be heard,
It joins the chorus of the lost as you sidle up to the bar.
You know the keeper, you tip him so that he greets you by name,
All so you can impress the charade around you,
Master of ceremonies for a freak show that not one of you,
The cast,
Can truly see.

Now you wake beside a beautiful stranger.
Rip off her skin and peer within
The ugly you see is the demon you share,
Drown it's harpy song with more devil water,
Pierce your skin and let it ride the needle ***** high beside you,
Into your own special hell.

I wonder what it is like to been seen.

To be a regular at a coffee cafe,
where all the baristas know your order,
and they always have your grande nonfat extra shot white mocha ready for you,
with your name written on it in scratchy calligraphy,
when you walk through the door at 8:44 in the morning.

To be a drop dead beauty queen,
to walk down the street in the middle of the day,
with perfect hair and a dazzling smile,
and to have everyone turn to look at you as you go,
and to say "Wow, she sure is something special".

To be someone's everything,
who knows all of your little secerts and special quirks,
who can cheer you up with a stupid joke or a sappy love song,
someone your parents would approve of,
someone to love you till the day you die,
to have them look at you and breathe out a sigh,
and wonder how they ever lived a day with your body laying next to theirs.

I simply wonder what it is like to be anything at all.

First, find yourself being told: “constructive criticism can only help your writing.” Climb on top of the table and scream at the top of your lungs, this will help release some stress and usually insight fear in those who dare to criticize your masterpiece. Sit back down and nod knowingly. If the critic chooses to continue, assume a defensive position such as standing on all fours with your back arced as if to pounce.
Instead of listening to the incessant ramblings of the critic, opt for singing the lyrics to “Dude looks like a lady” in your head while staring at his overly feminine features. Note to yourself that you will write a story about a man who is ridiculously critical as a means to compensate for his lack of masculinity. Smile to yourself. When he asks why you are smiling just say, “Oh, your advice is just soooooo enlightening” and then give a little giggle. Leave the workshop immediately and locate the nearest Starbucks. Buy one latte, nonfat of course, and sit in the corner hoping someone will ask you if you are a writer. No one will. Pout.
You walk to the bar to meet your friend because you are too broke to take a cab. Ignore every word she says; she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. So what she went to Yale and is a well paid, anorexic tax attorney? That’s boring. You are a writer. You’re a poet.  It’s a misunderstood art form. When Shelby suggests you try to get a job in journalism, laugh in her face. Take a cookie and savor it in front of her. Maintain eye contact. Note to yourself to write a story about a woman with a Yale degree that gets so bored filing taxes she dies.
When your father starts to say, “I just can’t pay for you to ***** around in NYC anymore.” Compare him to Osama Bin Laden in hopes of getting the point across that he is about to annihilate your dreams and, probably, the dreams of thousands of girls who have yet to read your unpublished masterpieces. When he says you are being ridiculous, tell him you wish you were adopted.