Rumination, Meditation, and Inebriation

Looking out the window at the gathering clouds (literal – not metaphorical) I wonder what secrets this city of angels still has to reveal. For instance, where are the angels? And who gets to decide which one of us achieves success, finds love, gets fit? I don’t believe in God, I believe in a higher power: David Geffen, Steven Spielberg, Katzenberg, Moonves – those kind of guys.

Sometimes I feel like I’m barely alive until the weekend hits, and then I do everything in my power to try to forget that I’m alive. Find me at a bar with a tie on and a striped shirt, swirling on about Poe and Bukowski and little known writers that commit suicide before their words see print. Find me late night patting the grease down on a processed cheese pizza, pointing awkwardly at the sinking moon, pontificating about how pointillism ruined art – as if I had any idea what either of those things are.

I’m halfway through my life — maybe less, maybe more — and still I haven’t tasted a $100 dollar bottle of wine. I haven’t sung in key – ever. I haven’t finished Leaves Of Grass, Infinite Jest, or Don Quixote.

I meditate but can’t seem to clear my mind to make it work, or maybe it’s working and I just don’t like the results. Like seeing all the stupid mistakes I make throughout the day, and how I repeat them the next even though I know they’re destructive and pointless and just make the suffering intensify.

I’m like a wooden soldier, unable to put up much of a fight; like a moth frantically circling the lamplight.

It’s the middle of the week, so that means I’m at the peak of my death. I’m writing this from the satin confines of my plush coffin. My word count is at 300 but that doesn’t mean I’ve said anything. If you’re reading this I wish you’d leave me alone. Let me stay buried. All this dirt above me feels nice and warm. I can love you better from down here.

There’s a place on the moon where unread poems go to be disposed of. It’s marked by a flag with a pine cone on it. I hold the record for most amount of poems there. My heart is a pine cone.

Here’s another one:

Heading up the street with my headphones on,
in two worlds at once, walking in song
with the colorful characters shuffling along,
they are me and I am them,
the bright lights and modern city din
blinds me and overwhelms my equilibrium

I am here, for forever and an eon.
Till I disappear and become phosphorescent neon.

A storefront sign that says:
CLOSED.

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