I don’t have high hopes for this world,
mercurial in its machinations,
with more pain than it cares to mention.
A back breaking heaviness awaits
those who express
the aching nature of being alive.
There’s so much to do,
too little space to do it.
There’s even a shortage of cream cheese.
New forms of ailments emerge just in time
to forget the ones that already existed.
Peace arrives in the form of delicate moments
made tense by the next problem
and the next
and the next.
Reels, TikTok, build your brand.
You can’t get anywhere without a presence,
a new car and premium health insurance.
Jordans that sell out the nanosecond
they become available.
It’s a warning.
On this earth,
joy is fleeting and defined by what we have,
predicated upon what we don’t.
My 401k is humble and I don’t intend on sticking around.
I’d never leave on my own accord,
too old to entertain those thoughts –
anymore.
But no man knows the day or the hour
and no woman can take stock
in an illusory world
rife with distraction,
comparison,
where one can consume everything
yet never feel satisfied.
