A more edited and revised version of an original slam-poem I wrote titled: Nothing To Be Done.
Nothing to be done.
The laundry on the floor piles higher still as the dishes in the sink collect into societies, days and faces blur to a stream of pointless niceties. Hours blend into weeks and years, but time is money so I spend them as quick as I can, wishing for a single friendly soul to meet me where I am.
Where did purpose go?
Down with the last dose of reality, sliding into place like a subway car door on the way to a job, the kind of money that you know isn't worth your time if it wasn't the only thing holding back the need to rob,
and steal, and make morals a maybe. Ethics don't feed babies.
So I choke down the fury and savor the taste of fantasy, wishing I could make 86 Postal a present 20s reality. Tried boxing to get the rage out of me, but it cannot be just another wasted effort while waiting for the next order of calamity.
Plagues every day and no Moses in sight, seven years of darkness with no one to strike a light but the people, ‘cept we don’t have a thing to burn. Our kids gotta read, so to the flame our bodies yearn.
As they light my martyr’s torch I look up into the sky. My daughter learns her letters while my son learns how to cry. The people shout my name in thanks and the rich laugh as I die, I clench my teeth in spite and picture camels going through a needle’s eye.
Life like a crime scene white-collar and proper, had their lawyers explain it all and charge me every dollar. Speaking slow and smiling as they scam my life away, leave me breathing in the gutter so I can work another day.
Waiting, wasting, wanting for something I never knew I wasn't supposed to have. Watching wall street burn and wanting to laugh, but it sticks in my throat as I remember why it's not ok. That hedge-fund money was my Daddy's 401k.
Where did purpose go?
Into quiet lonely nights wondering what there is that's worth spending money on, out of childhood memories and into the twenty-four-hour newsreel burned into my brain alongside the guilt and the shame from how the president told me I killed the planet as I breathe in bottled air, made in China.
Nothing to be done.
I spend the days as fast as I can wishing the world would slow down. "No refunds," God said. Never take the deal when the dealer's inside your head.
This promised land is a scam, nothing here but the opportunity to live like sardines in a can and I can't, but I can't leave either. Not with the gate closed on fate and sealed by elected deceivers.
"You're doing the devil's work," the man said as I handed him his triple shake with extra whipped cream. I crack a grin and nod as he drives off in a cloud of pollutants and steam,
Thinking to myself that I'd gladly work for angels if they were hiring; but they're all busy off being inspiring and firing and making a show of being high and mighty and always in the right. Just another devil, better at hiding in plain sight.
Why bother?
"Do what makes you happy," said the billionaire as I clock into my shift. "Pay your bills," says my landlord. "Call the suicide hotline," says Google as I search for a poison to kill the rat that ate my cereal. Nothing feels real.
Not the news, not my paycheck, not the dreams I leave behind in my bed, nothing save the Greek king's sword the Boomers left hanging over my head Not even denial can save me from the dread, watching prices tick higher as the dollar ticks down. Like a thread, pulled tight as a wire, like walking a tightrope and looming ever higher, have you ever known the fear of having just enough to lose?
Escapism, I say, that’s the way to go. What’s it matter if we’re all dead anyway, so plug me in the matrix let me reap what I have sown for once. Just once. Then I’ll die happy cause machines don’t charge taxes. So what if ice caps are melting and half the planet’s building nukes, it takes a lot more than that to get me shaking in my boots. I just don’t care, you see. Daddy was a smoker, see, so I wasn’t gonna make it past thirty anway. Secondhand cancer costs more than I can pay.
It's a competitive world built on capital insight, fight or fight no flight, just the kind of scars seen under blacklight. But it's alright, my philosophy teacher said meaning is meaningless anyway. I want to say he's a fool, just another tool, but he's not. He's got something to say, but he's wrong, I'll do it my way if it kills me. So it killed me.
There's nothing I can do.
"Save a child, adopt today!" but orphanages charge more than I'm worth and uncle Sam takes twice as much as it is. This dirt ain't worth giving my kids.
In a fairer world, they would never have been born at all. But they're here, and I'm here; we're looking back as the end draws near, what do we see? What's left, what's become of me?
This my empire, like sand, legacy like smoke in the hand, no supply to meet the growing demand. I'm just one man.
Not a single good deed in the world.
I tripped over a pile of laundry in the dark, but I'm too tired now. I'll clean it up tomorrow.