Damn tired I am;
seems like the sun just set and this clock is
yelling at me already…Already!
Oxygen yawns into me
coffee drip heroin into my blood;
The Forbes 500 oligarchic monolith is waiting for
me to press those buttons;
to stare at them, beckon for them, wake live eat die sleep for them
How silly of me for not having gratuity for their crumbs
these many hours pre-dawn;
Maybe today is the day I finally quit
after I load my trunk
then unload, then setup, then load again, then unload again;
Maybe today I break the pattern;
It is just too early to look at
the bright side of life;
The sun even refuses to have a bright side at this hour
At least it’s quiet
At least there will be no traffic
At least there will be some microwaved ovum
and dry cured fried salted cobroller back fat
waiting for me
At least what I am doing
is a third cousin second removed from the passion
I always swore to follow
…All is not lost, I suppose.
I suppose I could try to make the best of today
True, it is the eighth month of winter
True, I am almost there and still cannot feel my hands or my soul
True, I am fighting the good fight, as the alchemist says
True, I am a department of one, necessary and invisible expendable, insignificantly important within daemon’s cinematic society;
but I could make the best of it
plan something exotic;
Yes, I could map out brainstorms of creativity,
wake decaying projects from the back of my intentions,
inspire a laceration to bleed out the monotony
Who am I kidding, though?
I’ll arrive to a producer who not only won’t remember my name
but will not even know my position in his animal kingdom;
I’ll talk the good talk, laugh, take a piss in the bathroom that
some bulimic actress just shit out her four pieces of fruit in,
hustle for hours over tasks meaningless to
the impetus of the human condition
then spend sixteen hours of rinse and repeat while
a dozen porn-interns-turned-high-ranking-advertising-execs
pine and argue over the cosmological significance of the
upward vs downward inflection of the name of a product that
will accomplish nothing but anally leak the life out of
frightened ignorant consumers during the segment breaks of
Judge Judy
while I eat obscene amounts of high fucktose corn solids
disguised as craft nourishment,
watch Youtube, text my wife the repetitive revelation of
how today is the day I take control of it all,
she’ll laugh, say I’m charming and
that she still loves me;
I’ll eat some more, have lunch, force my own
constipated fecal protoplasm into filthy toilet water
entertain my epiphany of freedom once more over
small coffee and small talk
then shuffle back to my metal auditorium chair
Roll Camera
and fill out my day contacting whoever else I had
the honor of contracting for, hoping to book more and more
of these days until I make enough
money to make one of these booking’s my last
—
—
—
…alright
…time to get out of bed and begin.
af
(written on computer, about to get back in the biz)
