living a still life.

I feel like my life has ground to a halt,
Even though I know, for a fact, that time is passing:
The vegetables in the still-life
I’ve been painting every day
Are aging—I can see their sides hollowing in,
Their posture shrinking.
The once stretched leathery hides
Of the bell peppers are drying up
And starting to wrinkle,
Collapsing into cavernous creases.
The plums are pruning, the casings of the
Formally ripe tomatoes are starting to sag,
Collecting and piling in ripples at their bases,
The skin of the eggplants is folding—drawn, like pursed lips.
The apples are browning, their bruises exposed,
The lemons are molding, coated in a frosting
Resembling cobwebs,
Time is passing,
And I document these changes in my paintings,
The white of my canvas
Slowly disappearing under thick layers
Of oil paint and turpentine.
The evidence is all around me:
I accidentally grew a beard)
(I finally shaved; I look twelve);
Time is passing.
I witness funeral processions every day,
People are dying; time is passing.
The dishes pile to overwhelming heights in the sink;
Time is passing.
The tide of cheap red wine
Ebbs away from its bottle
And into my gut;
Time is passing.
The days are growing noticeably shorter;
Time is passing.
Still, I feel like my life is on pause.
I don’t feel like an active participant.
“I’m inside a still-life, with the other absentee”.




I went out to lunch with a professor the other day,
And he told me all about how he married
His college sweetheart,
And how wonderful it all is,
And how he couldn’t imagine being
With anyone else.
Then he asked me if I had a sweetheart;
I told him I didn’t.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “when you find the one,
you’ll know it”, he assured me.


Later that night, I was debating
Whether or not I should wear nice jeans
To a friend’s birthday party
“Why does it matter?
Who here are you going to impress?”
One of my housemates replied,
Half in jest, but bluntly glossing the truth
Silver with sarcasm.
Ouch.
“Good point,” I conceded,
And I didn’t tell her
About how I was also debating
Trimming my pubes.








We always want what we can’t have.
I’m sick of coming home to an empty bed.
(I’m also sick of whacking off)
I long for human touch.
I want somebody to harmonize with.
I want an excuse to trim my pubes.
I want somebody to love.



But you can’t always get what you want,
Even if you probably deserve it.












I guess, sometimes, the only thing you can do
Is dance in your room to Tegan & Sara
Because, despite what you tell yourself,
You’re still not over it.
But at least you’re dancing
And that must be some kind of step
In the right direction.

Right?










“He’s just a boy what on earth am I thinking?
The billions treasure each drop they are drinking—
And I just want to make it through the night
I just want to know that I’ll survive
Everything is relative, that’s right
But you’ve never suffered a day in your life.
Poor little rich boy playing piano
What good is practice if you haven’t learned by now?
There are no starving Chinese in your bedroom
The finger that points is attached to your elbow.”