it hurts to know that we are garbage,

as Bukowski tells us,

our deaths are problems of disposal

and not matters of the soul

at all.

But listen,

the tap tap tapping of computer keys:

The attic of my brain is opened, and you are in it,

we are in it together, in the dank air

and the arousal of fear

and the chary shroud.

we are reluctant in silence

to awaken the colossus dormant

just outside our vision, somewhere,

embedded in the darkness like water

inside clouds.

what is the colossal fear?

that we are afraid of ourselves?

that loneliness is a form of cancer?

that masturbation prevents prostate cancer?

that we have bad breath?

that people can hear our thoughts?

that if people heard our thoughts we’d be isolated from society, kept in a display cage above the masses while they point at us and say, “Ah! look, there is the bedrock of depravity”?

that we secretly love being alive?

that our lives are more precious to us than even our limbs or genitals?

that our craving for life is so enormous it devours itself and becomes hatred?

that we are garbage?

not exactly.

It’s that we are garbage

yet we think

we are treasure and always beautiful

when in fact we are like gold that

only glints at noon,

we are beautiful sometimes

but worth the same


Written at 12:54 in the morning, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 


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