the pretend poem

this day's light on its last legs, hung
in the sky like a drunk painter.
from my porch, a pestilent thought eclipsing
a smile. a forced poetry. this
might really be, but
is it actually worth it?

the hum-drum every day, one-twos
march march, ground to
a fine powder. a mixture of ugly
and what might be beautiful. an
unachievable height, i sacrifice
myself to it, work labor drink
all up in smoke. i am spoiled.
life is casual.

i look past things, push them away
and stare into shadows. meanings...
should they exist. i mean, should they?
this is where i ask for forgiveness,
warn of pretentiousness.
within or without, my eyes
take on a different
kind of hollowness. sometimes
there is pain. like, what's it like,
this thing that insists on being love?

never mind, it's probably just pretty
and glorified utopic
numbness short of death. i do shit.
cook or clean or sweat or cross paths,
go down up under where
the streets reflect a desperation.
and people wanna run me down,
pin some clause to me, make me
make sense. do i have time for this?
love has six dozen meanings,
i'm still chewing on the spelling.

it's possible. the sky just went home,
painted by a drunkard. maybe i know him.
after all, we have to have a use
for things. i force poems because
there is no use for them. other than
being a nostalgia, a lobotomy of sorts.
kinda like a need.