Small

these little things we
worry about.

how we come off in a conversation.
the way we look to other people.
what they think of us.
how they view us.

it’s all just bullshit.

everything in our lives is bullshit.
we don’t control anything.
we can’t mandate.
we’re stuck.
we’re stuck
in what we opted for
in our mid-twenties,
because
by that time,
we pretty much decided
who we are
and
what we were going to be,
and do,
for the rest of our lives.

except,
I don’t want to
accept
that. Bukowski
never did.

maybe thirty is the new 10.
which would
make me about 16. I’d
like that. being 16 again. I’d
probably do a lot of the same, but
I’d do a lot of the different,
too.

I just don’t get it. I don’t get it.
I don’t understand life, and
that
really
irks
me. it gives me this
cacophony in my brain.
I have a need to understand things.
I have a need to be in control.
and I feel like I am the furthest from control when it comes to my life.

every day is just another
repeat
of the last day. it’s like playing chess
with yourself,
and losing.

and so I do stupid things,
and I say inane things,
all the while I feel things
that I know
must be ridiculous.

I don’t even know
what is meant when I say
“I.” the quarks and electrons
in my brain?
the combination of them?
they’re just excitations in their
respective fields. I’m a quark and electron
field excitement.

I don’t know.
I just need another metallica concert,
I think.

at least there,
I can be unbidden,
unburdened,
and I can
forget about life for awhile.