The shit is getting old.
the darkness drops again
it’s monday and it feels like it’s always monday.
pushing a boulder uphill and hoping against hope
it won’t roll back and crush me. more late assignments
wait and of course they’ve been written by the
machine. i want to scream. to push a button and
set fire to the file, instant electronic conflagration,
explode the walls of that null set room to expose
the airless air inside. boom. but nothing i can do —
default setting these days. impotence. rage
disguised as sarcastic resignation. weary regret,
quiet quitting. this is no country for old women
or poetry or giving a shit. better to be a fake. better
to wear an embalmed smile and fill in the blanks
with unexplained 75s, machine to machine.
