Get up.
Shower.
Eat, then shower.
Hygeine.
Get less naked.
Get dressed.
Go to work.
Get off.
Find food.
Go to other work.
Have coffee as dinner.
Come home.
Raid pantry.
Postpone sleep.
Get on computer.
Get off.
Sleep.
Get up
With the deejays who think they’re funny.
Throw on last night’s clothes.
Check hair—is it utterly ridiculous?
Who is gonna care? Neighbor girl?
Don’t care. Shuffle out to take care of the dog.
Find nothing that sounds good for breakfast.
Find something anyway.
Get on the computer.
Facebook. BoingBoing. CNN, XKCD, Penny Arcade.
Rinse, repeat.
Check clock—is it utterly ridiculous?
Strip. Walk naked. Glance at mirror.
Stare at mirror.
Draw back shower curtain.
Get water in the ballpark of hot.
Pop the thingy.
Shield skin with shower curtain til ready.
Wash hair. Lather.
Wash face. Lather.
Rinse. No repetition. No need, also no time.
Wash body.
If clock is ridiculous, tops and tails.
Rinse.
Kill the water.
Draw back the curtain.
Dry head, dry body, step out.
The mirror fogs differently depending on the day.
Stare at mirror. Imagine a six pack.
No, fuck that. Imagine no spare tire.
Imagine skinny fucking hipster boy
With porn-ready sausage:
That would be sufficient.
Acknowledge and accept.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T like Aretha.
Know it.
Brush hair until it feels right.
Hit it later with fingers.
Shave the terrible neckbeard now.
Shave just below the lower lip.
Redefine the shadow on the cheeks.
Call it good.
The clock is ridiculous.
Deodorant. Q-Tips. Occasional powder.
You know the drill.
Go get dressed.
Put the dog way.
Get out the door.
Think for the seventh time in a week
It’s time to clean the trash out of the car.
The car has touches of rust like the first barnacles
On the hull of an aged sloop.
Ignore broken gas gauge.
Ignore broken ventilation selector.
Ignore front passenger window you dare not unroll
Because the little motor sounds ill.
Ignore slowly growing hole in floor carpeting.
Ignore paint stains, fossilized French fry, and musty smell.
Stare at trip odometer and wonder if you have enough gas.
Turn your old baby on, remember you named her Helena
Back when My Chemical Romance was new.
Listen to her engine still hanging on remarkably well
Like the grand dame of an oil dynasty.
Except that random gurgling sound she sometimes makes
At a stoplight.
Ignore that.
Smile and put your records on.
Figuratively-speaking.
Wince, annoyed, as each bass hit rattles and buzzes
In speakers that have surpassed their expected life expectancy.
Drive down the alley that laughs at shocks.
Drive the familiar streets of your hometown.
Curse drivers.
Get to your first job.
Feel a low electrical mix
Of ease, joy, happiness, nervousness, awkwardness.
This is DESTINATION.
You want this to be your life.
You want this love, this freedom, this acceptance.
You feel strange arriving after everyone else
And leaving before everyone else.
You try to read signs like a wilderness tracker
To know if they plan to give you the great gift.
You like this place.
Four hours later, you leave.
Home to a can of soup.
Or, if the clock is being ridiculous again
Fast food in the car.
The fossil deposits must grow, after all.
Get to your second job.
Clock in.
You loved this place at first.
Feel a low humming mix
Of contentment, complacency, apathy, annoyance.
This is DEPARTURE.
You want to leave this life.
You want no more of the steady tasks
That drift by you unconsciously like fluorescent lights.
Some of the people here save your thoughts
From the aggravating human cattle and mallrats
Mistreating all the pretty books like
Drunk sailors groping tavern girls.
The shrieking and mewling children.
The entitled masses.
America, 2013, in which you are (you have to laugh)
Inextricably associated, non-optionally.
Ignore how little you make.
Ignore that a meal from the food court
Represents almost a full hour of your day.
Get coffee and a muffin instead.
You need the caffeine anyway.
Sell.
Service.
Read a prepared announcement over the PA.
On a slow day, think too much.
Maybe write a poem.
Maybe interrogate your heart.
Maybe someone beautiful walks through
And brightens your eyes.
Stirs your blood.
Service.
Sell.
Clean something.
Clock out.
At night the cat attacks.
Lock him in the bathroom
Until he settles down.
At night she reads or feeds her dinosaurs
And goes to sleep.
She had a long day and is not in shape.
You had a long day.
You aren’t in shape either.
(But not so bad, you think.)
Kiss her goodnight, hold her a moment.
Tell her you love her.
You mean it, even if you saw
Someone beautiful walk through
That stirred your blood.
Turn off the light to let her sleep.
Get on the computer.
Facebook. Email. BoingBoing. Random.
Look through the scraps of paper that accumulated
Notes and snippets and novels and poems
In the course of the working,
In the course of the getting by and earning a life.
Type something up.
Type something from scratch.
Make a video.
Make anything.
Engage in a long and winding textual correspondence
With someone very far away.
Or keep your secrets.
Or create new ones.
Or just make the best art you know how.
Until it’s 2:00 in the morning
And the deejays will be calling again too soon.
Get up.
Shower.
Eat, then shower.
Hygeine.
Get less naked.
Get dressed.
Go to work.
Get off.
Find food.
Go to other work.
Have coffee as dinner.
Come home.
Raid pantry.
Postpone sleep.
Get on computer.
Get off.
Sleep.
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