UNNAMED No 1
Undated, 2018
I perish,
utterly and completely so as to not leave the slightest speck of a trace behind, surrendering to futility, bowing to circumstance, and I become a footnote to the annals, a bystander to history that screams and shouts and begs and pounds against the walls of mediocrity and when my cries fade and the anguish turns into a hole so deep I tumble into depths of clarity, of madness, realizing there is sanity in madness and madness in sanity, then, and only then, can I rail, can I claw, spittle flying from my mouth in righteous anger, bellowing posthumously:
‘who are you,’
to take from me, to take from him, to take from us that is which is ours, that which is mine, me- who abhors the narrow, laser focus of brevity and the over-thoughtfulness of longevity, no no no no, what they seek is chaos in manufactured order, where pain and disease come off an assembly line, strutting on red carpets and peddling their electric-kool aid and selling us the cure for fuck-you-ninety-nine, promising me, the fool, the puppet, the simpleton, everything… and they are not wrong to prey then feast, laughing, patting full bellies and licking greased fingers, no no no no, they are not wrong to let me fight with the weapons that they made and expect me to lose, they are not wrong to sell me the picket signs that protest their injustice, after all,
I am the fool, the puppet, the simpleton, alive only in my fleeting desire to maintain what paltry piece of peace I hold, to keep from screaming and plucking out my eyes so I no longer have to look at that detested wife or those horrid children, so I don’t have to see tomorrow, so I can live, forever in a day, reveling in the consoling fact that tomorrow only exists as a checklist of things to bemoan, then grudgingly do, maybe one day I will wake up to a world empty, filled only with the lofty words spoken by men and women or whatever in between, all wearing thousand-dollar garments and preaching from the sky about the nature of the earth, and I will listen, and dream, and hope, not realizing that dreams have always been for those who slumber and hope is the salve of victims, with outstretched hands quietly waiting their turn in line, squinting at bright lights in dark tunnels,
waiting to perish.
