not worth giving a title to

there are days i do what needs to be done

like a song bird celebrating the rising sun

the instinct of situational poverty

 

then there are days when the pointlessness

pounds me with promiscuity

where even my poetry

my only passion

appears at the forefront of pointlessness

 

and this morning’s boredom is stroking me

like a silken hand in a velvet glove

a wingless dove

i unsheathe my shelf of past poetry

read passages by bukowski

morrison, richmond, rimbaud

 

stack them without re-shelving

put on my shoes

go outside

light a smoke

 

and fantasize

i am not dead inside

not suckling

at the breast of nihilism

that only produces powered milk

which expired long ago

 

doctors say i should take pills

for depression

others that i should copulate

with conversation

or pray within a congregation

 

this cigarette is as pointless

as masturbation

but i have no plans

after i snuff it out

but to sit on the couch

and stare at the sunlight

sliding across the carpet

because earlier i opened the curtains

to have light by which to read

 

you cannot harvest without planting seeds

people need definitions

to put the lid on a box

but i am undefined

there is no reason to rhyme

no rhyme without reason

 

i commit treason

by trying to put something on this page

writing the word pointless

to make a point as dull

as the tip of this pen

i acquired when

i do not remember

because nothing ever seems

worth considering

 

sunshine obliterating

the dark hue of the carpet’s fiber

dyed in a machine operated by

someone who may have already died

 

my eyes fixed on a pointless point in time

feeling like i’m just waiting to join this someone

 

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