Saturday, January 18, 2014

It is what it is

It is what it is

I’m buried
in a cycle
of dead-end
jobs.

“Apply here,
call them,
you’ll get an interview…
a job…”

whatever.


I waste hours
applying here
and there.

I do assessments
for jobs
I’ll never
get, and
don’t want.

Everyone around me has
found
their calling.
Or at least
makes a living.

And me?

I’m buried
in a cycle
of dead-end
jobs.

It’s worse
than being
homeless.
I humble
myself to
apply for
stupid shit-head
sales jobs, insurance jobs,
bank jobs, retail jobs.
Low-end-scum-
of-the-Earth type
jobs.

Jobs I’m
over-qualified for. But,
the employer thinks
otherwise.

The pressure is on
to maintain
life,
relationships,
family.

However,
I think
I’ll just disappoint
everyone
by
being buried
in a cycle of applications
to dead-end
jobs that I
can’t get.


I’m just so tired of hearing how
easy
it is to get a job here or there
from people who have had
EVERYTHING
handed to them.

I'm just so tired of hearing how
I need to stoop
to someone's definition
of success by
becoming a conformist,
a hedonist,
a materialist,
a control-freak afraid of
whatever imagined failure
they think there is
(we all die, don't we?)

Then I think,
why am I so desperate
to be in
servitude
to such
fucking idiots,
who can't even see
beyond the tips
of their noses,
anyways?

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Bukowski Blues



Bukowski Blues

People ache
and groan and god
do they moan
about their simple lives.
Simpletons,
they cry
over affluent losses.
Chinaski said it
best,
Don’t bother me
with your fetid melodrama.
And here I am,
a hypocrite.
I complain
of all those bitches.
You’re obsessed
over damned
trivialities.
You whine instead
of forgiving.
I don’t care
about you
nor your complaints.
Give up
your bull-shit
writing.
You try to hard
to make us feel
to make us think.
Bukowski said it
best,
Don't try.
And here I am,
a hypocrite.
I'm tired
of you
and your over-dramatic-
spewed out shit --
your thoughts
in words
splattered on pages
in lines and meters.
Shit you call poetry.
Bukowski said it best:
Don’t write poetry.
And here I am,
a hypocrite.
Maybe you feel
I hate people,
I don't.
It's just...
Bukowski said it best,
I seem to feel better
when people aren't
around.
And here I am.

Hypocrite.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Poor Doggy

Poor Doggy


There was a dog
dead
on the side
of the road.
his head was busted
open, and
his tongue was hanging
out.
His name was Dutch,
or Mufasa,
or Tulip,
or Holland,
or whatever, it
doesn't really matter.
I saw him lying
there
alone.
All I wanted to do was
give him
one last hug
before he died.
Rewind time
and tell him,
“It’ll be alright.”
Even though it wouldn't.


It made me wonder
why don’t I
take this
application to people?
We’re all going to die.
But, instead,
I’m too focused on
myself and
what I can accomplish
before I end up
dead
on the side
of the road
head busted open
tongue hanging out.
Or
however I go.
I wonder
if
when that day comes
people will want to
rewind time 
to give me 
one 
last hug, and
tell me,
“It’ll be alright.”

Friday, January 10, 2014

Another Day Survived

Another Day Survived

I was walking
up the stairs
and thought,
there's a quick way
to end this.
Just let myself go,
fall back, and
tumble
d
o
w
n
.
Maybe I'd crack my head,
maybe break my spine, preferably
I'd die.
In the snap
of a second
I could have solved
everything.
But, instead,
I kept my sanity, and
walked up those stairs
to
press on.