alll of the monsters

 all of the monsters surface

gilted in my lack of service

hell hole bound, self quarantined

inletting strangers' bloodstreams

sip reddit soup of angsty teens

conversing with  boomer memes

who try to stream like tumblers.

so i had to put the phone down

lite a drag. half way burnt, limit

vice. i have piles and ibs, a stress

factor of getting fired, forcibly retired

before it's time for the insurance to pay off.

whine and wine don't make it go away off

in some socialist future you and i dreamed 

about when we were young and in love

and suicidal. we believed cioran when

he said you always do it too late. it's 

never too late. stop the gate 

way drug, indolence as it tracks 

up your arm in that sweet warm release

stop it now, pull some weeds or ease

the mailbox, eat some food or squeeze

the editor out of your head, mosquito burrito

the suck of blood and introduction of a new

epithelial disease. of course, the covid creeps in

it's hiding just outside my colleages unmasked nose

or maybe it rose it the air in passing her in

the thin wallway or hovering over her parts bin.

what sin have they found amomg all my 

unfinished projects. i have no human interest

stories about work because they've put me in an office

and the only thing i hear from the floor is spanish

or machine language. neither in which i am fluid

so i just bop my head to the beat. so that's work

and  no wonder i said to the receptionist

on the way out to my car out break yesterday 

my dream is to be informed that i've won

the lottery at 3 pm on a workday and walk 

out that door and never come back. she didn't

shoot me a look or with a gun for mercy she nodded

and with sympathic eyes said i feel ya girl. she's only

been here 3 years. i've been here 32 but i guess it

don't matter the plantation you work on so much

as the fear of what will happen when you leave.

so that's why sometimes i pray for capitalism's

demise. i mean, it was  a good thing until it became god.

progress, innovation, competition, market decisions,

better better be best and get the incisions, youth masks

 malaria, it's gettin pretty hairy in the middle of this muck

the inner insides of a mind that's turning yuck.

to re revise what happens when from the machine i'm shucked

becuase i don't know if i could roam the country

in my prius anymore. if i had a book if it was worth a trade.

and no, i don't think capitalism is so great. i'm a socialist

and realize that effective innovations take a village to create.

444444

the cats peed in my car because my honey left it open. 

wat the fuck. it smells worse-

and i didn't think this was possible-

than the stale cigarette/weed scent that was its signature.

it's also an uncomfortable drive. perfect for a last traced demograhic

in her last 5 years of work. hmmm. maybe i could get a new model

and make it be a 3 year payoff? that would give me purpose

and relevancy. plus honey ain't retiring when i do. besides

being younger he wants to keep workin because he loves his job.

so then we need to move closer to where he works.

i say let's sell the luxe trailor then. five years out. 

by that time the ice shelves should be mostly gone, 

hurricanes a thing of a warmer ocean, and ummm

well, it's a crap shoot if this place'll be under water or not.

ok, sell now. five years out we'll be in mid fla and i can 

drive to the beach in my newish whatever doesn't smell

like death in a teacup used as a litter box.  but honestly

i'm so fucking weary tired and used up. i'm getting 

the depressives, the empty nest syndrome. i know i'll

volunteer at abortion clinics to keep the jerks at bay

or find some other worthy cause to kinda fill my day

or get the plague and wither away but these thoughts

are what ifs i don't do that. wanna have a least a vague

ambition  for my time after i expire. the stamp's 

on my skin, manufacturer's suggested retail fail.

i think it's kinda accurate. i surely will be at the end

of my shelf life by then.  how to get out before i get skinned.

buy a damn ticket and see if i win.

*

clean the frig. dust the shelves, sweep the floor.

open the door, a democracy is dying. someone

using this address has registered republican. 

i get the face of terror in my mail daily. it's scarey. 

to think i housed a traitor at some point. i know the last

name. it's one of the ugly step sisters, close as real .

i even knnow which one, no big deal. surrounded on all

sides by lunacy, what sane person would engage?  i'm done

but my honey says to join a phone bank and campaign.

i'd do it for chamagne but only cuz it rhymes. i mean

no times would i do it for joe. he's lucky i'ma even head out. 

it's the most i can do for now. all my hopes died this spring

when my daddy told me of real things and i found 

that not only was he right, he was just as wrong as me. 

*

so yeah, i mean if failing health and pain

are the only rewards for surviving

i mean the revelations i'm seeing in the news...

i didn't exactly want to see the fruits of 150 years

of industrialization fall into my back yard. but i guess

it's fitting seeing as how i've been repairing the eyes

of said system for 32 years. it's how i make my bread.

so it would be a hoist on me petard to watch it all drown.

or melt in a cleansing furnace. all the while our distractions

crumble, the isolation of numbers. singular ants drown quicker.

8888

so i mean, really? cigarettes? pffft. 

()()()(