Had the office set up
for two months
before I ever sat
at the desk,
next to the fishtank
where algae tarnished
the glass and the bookshelf
overflowed with old books
and dust, and sitting there
at the keyboard
I did not feel good,
wanting to weep at my failures,
the passage of time and loss
of self, the old friends
I had pushed out of my life,
calling them cunts or not calling
at all, I did not feel good,
feeling sick and delirious, cracking
my fingers, concentrating within
the line, from the window watching
crackheads in-and-out of the pizza joint,
the street corner drunks (my friends)
all asleep by now, tired from the day,
but still finding the reason to survive
tomorrow.
The root of pain exists within each particle,
everything regarded as human;
if I remove a beer from the shelf
to leave another sitting alone, stranded,
I feel the hurt of loneliness for the other
and must move a cold one to touch its side.
I watched a stink bug walk in circles
around the ceiling of my bedroom
for a week straight, before resting
in the corner and remaining still
until I found him later in the kitchen
crawling towards a crumb, looking
weak. He took a bite and I took him
to the roof to find a new home, or
become dinner for something else.
These days I sleep alone,
with a bottle of melatonin
beside my bed instead of whiskey
and when morning comes I still
wake up tired
and contemplate death for an hour
before going back to sleep
to dream a little longer.
THE FILTERED PRESS 