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Saturday, March 19, 2011

At last

Nothing works in this life
I don’t either
Just keeping a vehicle
pointed in the right direction
brain dead or dying
noise from the radio
numb legs and spirit
looking forward to the wine
that sits waiting for me at home

the internet’s down again
the brakes grind with every stop
cable’s too costly
silence fills the expensive apartment
I wait for my movie to load
Ten hours or so
I won’t be interested by ten
I don’t work either I guess

Outside are stumbling of others
They don’t work either
Not really. They look to be shells
Fitting in, being all right
Being another brick
Hurling toward the end
How can their lives be working?
They don’t live them

I sit and drink and think
I’m better this way
Than spending money
To be around those who don’t work
Even as they need breaks from their jobs
Grappling for superiority
Drinking, fighting, fucking
All mere tools to impose their rule

I don’t want to deal with them tonight
Or most nights. My wine kicks hard
And softly lands me to comfort
In front of the keyboard
Where I can let my writing free
And be free. Of them. Of superiority.
Of domination, or the struggle for it.
I can be the lover, not the fighter
Passion, swaying from good to bad
Yet alone and needing it all

The fan still runs out some of the outside noise
The glass full of cheap red
A lone cat outside the window
Commonality at last.

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