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.