5.29.17

I stare astonished at my own sadness

 like a galaxy, every star a failure,

every plume of gas an apology

fallen on deaf ears because

I never made it because

I am not sure who to make it to.

There is a feeling: emptiness begins

when the phone stops ringing,

and your bones hollow out once

people only value you for money,

and sadness descends

on the man who drinks himself

into fatness, saying all the while

Tomorrow I will stop.

Tomorrow things will be different.

Tomorrow the world will return to Technicolor, and

I will call my father.

Tomorrow, I will.

Written at 11:09 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.