I’m sick of everyone
and their crockpot recipes.
I’m sick of their Midwest mockeries.
I’m tired of the constant cacophony
of pained but righteous melodies
sung by sparrows feeling entitled to everything
and assholes baring their baritones
and all the others who can’t be alone.
Who won’t atone. Who sling their wares
through country roadsides and broader thoroughfares.
All the noise feels redundant but looks resplendent.
Feels remarkable. But sounds insolent.
I’m tired of wanting and wishing and playing
never missing a moment I’m convinced is so vital
to find it arrives and passes with no residue, no lasting.
I leave wanting not more, not less.
All I ever want is next.
This can’t be me. It can’t be what it seems.
I’m filled and fly on wings of dreams
but ever I know and ever I try there’s nothing left but next.
Next year and sorrow.
Next pity and wallow.
Next thing to be earned next feeling to burn.
Forgotten piles amount to a life well mined
by others who don’t give mine the time
or the mind.