Can’t say I won’t get stir crazy around
nine—its happened, twice, now, in the past
week or so; so, I think, then, that I’m bound
to get up earlier. The die is cast—
something to do, perhaps, with all that food
in my stomach, reducing the effect
of the soda pop on my time and mood.
Sleep is poor, so I’m looking to correct
something, to make my life tolerable,
if not perfect, for the time being—
screwed by his anxiety, in full,
driving me to and from the song I sing,
always becoming a different person.
So I’m an artist—I’ll never truly
settle, and be totally at peace, of one
mind, like others, with a satisfied body,
standing still. Listen closely, to us—
try to see yourself the way we see you;
make that allowance, join our chorus,
one note at a time. We do what we do—
but who am I when I’m doing nothing?
I have no definite identity,
I toss my hat, starstruck, into the ring,
but I’ll never be free of myself, free
of the weight that passes through my back,
the weight that, sometimes, gets a little stuck,
leaving me to his impossible flack,
wanting to care, and not giving a fuck.
I’m a hub for the next continuum,
chosen, by God, to move a world of freight,
taking a world that is deaf and dumb,
and making the best of it, forced to wait
on His handouts, and all that I will be,
second to someone that assumes my place.
I have no love, right now, for my country,
and, as such, I have no home. The face
I wear, for better or worse, is a stoic
one, since I’d betray both my emotions
and myself, subject to a worldly stick,
hellbent on what the good in me shuns—
a fiery end meant to scare me stiff.
O God, I ask, in my morning prayer—
take my nights and subtract his tiff—
the idea that I’m owed an answer,
an answer that would solve everything.
Let my subconscious play it’s part,
without grasping at straws. Let him ring
me tomorrow, the subject of my art.