aftermath

it is morning.

banging my head on the sunlight
i said,
"___k."

another weekend ends in a foggy SKYY haze
of dispondancy

and i wake up to reel-ality
stomach lurching over piles of unwritten essays
and unsent resumes,
caught up in an existential inner monologue
about trees falling and the absence of honey bees




we brew y/our coffee
we write our CD reviews
we attend our art shows
we pay our cover charge










we pay your interest fees
and overdue fines
we design your posters
we pierce your skin with dragons
and 'mothers'




we powder your crepes
we fetch your movie rentals
we usher you through aisles
to find your seat or organic fruit
we clear your tables
sew your clothes
fashion your jewelery






paint your walls
adorn your mantles
trim your bonsais
DJ your socials








we mould your image
with hair cuts,
artwork,
new food,
travel stories,
VIP lists
and music selections,

and boost your water-cooler cred
with anecdotes
about a world you don't actually believe exists
(but desperately want to be part of)












for some reason
i am a failure at mathematics
and cannot grasp the formula
which was laid out for me in public school:




be born +
go to school+
graduate+
go to school+
graduate+
get a job+
pay taxes+
get married+
reproduce+
reproduce+
retire+
go on a cruise+
die

=

Life, so suck it



this is the American dream
and the American dream is alive
& it's dulling my spirit

i.
am.
an.
artist.

you steal my art.
you're stealing it right now.




the more you steal
the harder i work
to fulfill your vapid life

i.
am.
fucked.

i didn't choose this