WALKING ON THIN ICE

Whatcha gonna do?

“I’m gonna go write.”

What about?

“The futility of writing.”

There is no futility
in writing. Cuz just
*writing* benefits you,
keeps you saner, keeps
you going, may save yr
life. In my case, it got
me a wife. And in very
rare rare rare instances
it’ll even make you rich
& famous, & famous after
yr dead if you write right
but not if you don’t
if you write wrong,
so long dong…

* * *

Who cares about evolution if
everything’s extinct? Who would write
when all words are sad & absurd? Poetry
is dead. All that’s left is the winch
rope of immediate needs. We be in
crucible times of crushed empties,
grave pay dirt.

Poets are stenographers of diminishing
returns. I’m no fool for exercising
appetite. I just wanna cozy hole in
which to lay down, get high & die.
It’s hard gumption to coax the half
lives outta potentialities.

What are poets to do when all to which
they refer becomes obsolete? A noun on
this planet has a sad connotation.

When the lights go out on this planet am
I gonna write about it? Cuz I don’t got
boundless aptitude or appetite for
mourning. I don’t got passion for dark.
The cream is curdled, the dream
obscured. Words are worthless when
refering to the absurd.

The boxes are empty
cats outta the bags
the chickens r dead
cuz we ate all the eggs

The fishies are gone
& the rivers are damned,
the bumblebees busted
Man’s pyramid scammed

The truck’s outta gas
the pie’s in our eyes
the lights r all out
cuz the bill is too high

yet I write