POINTLESS PADDED MENTAL ROOMS
imagining my absence of my presence around you
like seeing a bird not seeing me
or does it just not have the vocabulary
or not care to speak
do those I think about think about me
or am I just a contrail,
barely discernible
ultimately forgettable
lost & not found
work, work, I’m work
and I won’t take no
and I won’t take yes
flip flap, bent leather
reworked into worthlessness
bird’s a word for worms
my gunk is your junk
when I got ambition
I’m dead-end appalled
by futility
only when I give up
am I ok in the moment
this work does not matter
just the wick wet, the flame sweet
the measurement by feet, your own
movement, the exercise of your pace
through the day, the sidewalk,
the hi & by in passing
this work does not matter
people matter
poetry does not matter unless you’re almost dead
but then when you learn enough,
poetry does not matter
when you’re jaded enough,
poetry does not matter
when you’ve bent your heart to outer space
and collapsed it into an origami trash can
looking for meaning in endless empty inner shells
of regressive russian doll roulette pointlessnesses
what can matter after this process?
walking, the altitude of the sky to you,
you to the sidewalk. the sidewalk that wraps
around the Earth. the uncharted paths
you could make with a machete if you have a machete.
sounds in green, sounds in brown, roofless sounds
sounds through open windows
traffic and its absence
city and its absence
pay dirt of parallax
dead, yr in bed.
not dead, yr on your feet.
work can get u through the day
& it’s nice to say hi to people.
food’s good, too.
lady