it hurts to know that we are garbage,
as Bukowski tells us,
our deaths are problems of disposal
and not matters of the soul
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
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?
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.