bitter.

A more adequate title for this might be:
“On giving up”

So
I’ve been comparing notes with friends,
And it appears we’ve all, somehow,
Collectively and simultaneously
Come to the conclusion—without actually discussing
The matter until recently—that we’re done with this lifetime.
We can’t do much more with the cards we’ve been dealt
And it’s not that we want a new hand,
We just want the game to be over.
No, the realistic possibility of a suicide club
Is not what should be raising red flags,
Rather, the more salient item worth extracting
And underscoring is the fact that
We’re all just losing hope.
Perhaps our generation is just lazy and apathetic.
Or, something else is afoot.
Now, I might just sound like
A poor little rich boy, whining and being emotive
And inventing conspiracy theories
Because things aren’t going as planned,
(Because the days are already getting noticeably shorter
And it’s getting colder, and the dishes keep accumulating,
And my hair only looks good when I don’t wash it,
And keep forgetting about the plums I buy
Only to find them rotting away when I do remember them,
And I can’t actually paint or play the piano,
And painting and playing the piano
Aren’t actually productive or practical pursuits
Because there isn’t even a job market for artists,
And I can’t get to bed at reasonable hour,
And I definitely drink way too much,
And I’m not worried about my carbon footprint,
And it’s too taxing to keep track of the pain
Of the surrounding villages even though I wish I could,
And I’m single and more than aware and bitter,
And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like
I could legally marry the one I loved anyway.)
But everything is relative, right?
And this occurrence isn’t isolated.
I’m not the only one.
We’re all becoming less inspired
And rapidly losing hope… together.
Which is morbidly uplifting.
But also troublesome.
We’re all waiting for some sort of
Divine intervention:
To peel back our chocolate wrappers
And find that golden ticket,
Or for the law of attraction to finally kick in,
Or for the sky to fall,
And for the world to end.
Why does it seem like everything
Is out of our hands?
Why does it seem like
“Nobody is steering this ship.
We're all just looking nervously
At the approaching iceberg
& wondering if we can raid the bar”?

What is happening?
And why don’t we care?

If I had the time to figure it out
And report back to you, I totally would.
But right now, building a seed vault and erecting
A doomsday bunker seems like
A better use of energy.





“And if I had the patience and I had the money
And I had the humor and I had the offer
And the space and the time and the talent
And I had the power and I had the reason
And the virtue and I had the cunning
And I had the status and I had the wisdom
And I had the audience and the admission
And I had the method and I had the quiet
And I had the motive and the story
And I had the money and I had the time
(And you had the slightest clue what all the fuss was for
All of the times that I say that I’ll do it
It’s nine-hundred-nine that I secretly ruin
It’s good that I tell you this over and over
Over the rainbow and out through the back door)



Then I just might try

If only I could prove it
If only I weren’t stupid
If only I could torture
All the people who can do it

And if I had an offer to be better
I’d decline

And if that were more awful to consider
I’d be fine

And if it were all my fault
That I’m bitter…”

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.”

white after labor day.

My new house creaks,
Especially when everyone
Is sleeping soundly,
And the eerie orange glow
Cast by the street lamps
Is pouring in through the cracks in the curtains,
And the shadows are dancing
On the plaster walls of my bedroom,
And I can’t differentiate the stars
From the military jets soaring above,
And only the suspicious, windowless vans
And empty city buses are cruising about.

We live by the cemetery.
I see funeral processions every day.
I am constantly reminded
Of my own mortality.

But, I’m learning to live again:
I sing while I wash the dishes,
And watch as my hands prune.
I sit out on our front porch—
The roof supported by pillars
Resembling roman ruins—
And it’s like being at the theatre,
The porch railing separating myself—
Perched in my plastic loge chair,
Chain-smoking—from the stage.
The wildflower garden beneath me, filled with
Trumpeting perennials and hibiscus,
Manned by the humming birds and honey bees,
Acts as the orchestra pit.
And I watch the play unravel before me.
The cast: the ghetto blasters rocking out in their cars,
The hipster in his mid-thirties—
Decked out in his color coordinated pastel threads,
Aviator glasses,
And a thoroughly 70’s haircut—
Zooming by and honking and waving frantically
On his seafoamgreen moped.
The apathetic mailwoman, delivering letters and bills
To the wrong addresses.
The school kids scampering home,
The drunken rednecks, cursing and staggering about,
The meth-heads babbling to themselves,
The haughty hookers stomping down the cement sidewalk catwalk,
The ghetto boys trying to look intimidating:
I smile at them; they ignore me.
(It’s good to be in the hood.)
At night, I entertain company, and we drink
Boxed wine from plastic placentas,
And pretend to be super fuckin’ classy,
Fully aware that the booze won’t taste any less cheap
When sipped from elegant crystal glasses.

(I’ve been drinking red wine almost every night,
Staining my lips purple.
I have to wash away the evidence every morning.)



I went home for Labor Day
And visited friends.

(It’s nice when people run
Their schedules by me
Just to make sure I’m available
To see them—it makes me feel important,
Like I’m worth something:
Worth time, worth energy,
Worth fractioning out
A slice of day.
Do I sound like a douche bag?
I realize I’m no crackerjack prize,
But it’s nice to know that people
Actually want me around.)

Friday, we drowned ourselves in tequila,
And pretended to be the alcoholic bitches on vh1,
Rubbing what we spilled into our legs like lotion.
One of the most pertinent and meaningful lines of the evening
Came from the drunkest man in the house:
“Do wha’makessssyouu happy,
you only live life once,
so’njoy it, and do what makesssyou happy”
he slurred, as he handed us his booze.
I’ll raise my glass to that.
Here’s to doing what makes you happy.
And here’s to trying to be happy, despite the odds.
Cheers.

I listened as a crack-head explained
How liberating it was to break her own dishes,
And somehow, it made sense:
How, when someone else breaks your dishes,
It’s frustrating, but when you’re the source
Of the destruction,
It’s freeing and therapeutic.
I nodded and emphasized.

I porch-sat with a good friend,
And noted that
The leaves were turning red,
And the daises were dead,
And it hit me that
Summer was actually ending
And fall is right at our heels.



My hair is finally growing out.
I’m glad. I missed it. I feel like fall.
It’s funny how much people’s hair grows
While you’re away.


My friends’ hair grew.
I visited my clairvoyant friend—the virgin of the couch
With a haircut like Lady Gaga’s—
And her sister, the women’s studies lesbian—
Who updated me on her personal study of women—
Their hair grew.
And we watched nonsensical Japanese films:
They were unnerving.
We chain-smoked and cackled,
And we resembled a coven of witches.
And we fantasized about how jolly it would be
If we really were a coven of witches,
Casting spells and hexes on our enemies,
Brewing surefire potions for true love,
Tending to an herb garden
Of mistletoe, lavender, rosemary, sage and thyme,
Worshipping the moonlit nights
And flying across the midnight sky on broomsticks.
Maybe I should drop out of art school
And take up witchcraft.
Then I wouldn’t have to paint any more still-lifes,
Or grow up.


Is it pathetic that
One of my main plans for the future
Is for the apocalypse to finally arrive,
Or for the aliens to invade,
And beam me up off of this planet
Just so I can avoid growing up?
I don’t think so.


At least,
I’m starting to finally feel like myself again.
My heart is finally healing,
I am finally breathing.
No more self-loathing,
Or playing out impossible
And unrealistic scenarios,
I’m not sure what
I’m supposed to be doing with myself.
But at least I can consume myself
With something new,
And finally focus on doing
What makes me happy.