the inevitable return
I’ve wasted so much time in some vain attempt to keep from becoming a schlub.
I’ve got stacks of old newspapers by the door, I don’t throw them away because it’s some kind of physical evidence that I’m looking for a job.
I borrow more money than I can ever hope to repay.
I think it’s funny, but it isn’t funny, it’s gross.
Gross in the way that I unwrap a pack of cigarettes while I’m waiting for my change; smoking before I leave the store, and thinking, “cigarettes are the reason I can’t do anything right.”
It’s all gross, gross in the way I hide my track marks and money. “Where does all our nice stuff go?” That’s the worst question someone can ask you when you know the answer.
Gross in the way that I’m telling you this now, obvious, cowardice.
Gross in the way I live in Cleveland, Ohio, and I hate cold weather and snow.
Gross that I believe that all these problems would settle to the ground like so much ash if I just had the guts to go ahead and be drunk, once and for all.
My lying, forward morality just makes the ship sink faster, and all this wasted ink makes the water blue.
>Gross in the way that only a man can be gross, centered in self; no concern for day or job or rent or pain, muscle, sex, horrible yellow skin.
And all this said in a sad, feminine voice.
I’m tired of words, and the way my mind uses them.
Everything is pedophila, everything is a slow madness, softened by a sensitive pill.
Fuck you, I’m not ok, and a job won’t help.
I’m coming back; I’m coming back.
-to box with man, “the inevitable return”