i can’t think of anything

i can’t think of anything

i can’t think f anything

i candt think so anytnign

ai candit think of antyhign

i cans tthingk of anythign.

.

If I write it enough times

it might come true. Sadly,

anything is all I think of.

My poor brain,

my poor poor brain,

enslaved to foolish whims

and desires that will only

manifest in dreams,

enslaved to stubborn memory,

and worst of all, I have no choice but to know

the names and faces of all of you I meet

who will abandon me.

Each one of you, I remember, like a thorn

inside my foot, each step forward an expression

of the hurt.

.

Melodrama! O, Sentimentality!

.

Here’s an ode to meaningless abstraction!

Here’s another poem with no rhythm and no

rhyme, no reason for existence

but that its author has no purpose

and not enough experience to talk

on truth.

.

But I can spew this heartsick diarrhea

for a thousand dozen years.  Love and

hurt and pain and loneliness and

depression and suicide–

writers, take note: all you have to do

is mention these words

and people will fall to their knees,

they will adore you

they will worship the chest

inside of which you claim

your heart was fractured, and

they will say, Mine too! I feel pain too!

My heart is also shattered! I also feel

regret and isolation! You are my new Jesus!

But do they ever think that what they feel

is a symptom of the process of being alive

and self-centered, like every other thing

in the universe? from phytoplankton

to exoplanets; from Idaho to Mozambique,

it is all the same because we are each

our own suns.

Shine, darlings! Shine!

Remember: the sun shines always,

even when it’s not there, at night

when the moon ignites the world,

it is also

by the light

of the sun.

---

Written at 12:59 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.