All you remember eating was a piece
of ham yesterday. And then last night on the boat,
drinking with a German buddy you’ve known
for five years who believed until two days ago
your name was Sam.
“Like, Son of Sam?” “Exactly.”
Also with you was a fluffy-haired Liverpudlian
and an Israeli named Nimrod
(who found nothing
strange about the name).
and car bombs and tequila and Mexikaners
on that old docked boat.
And then waking up this morning, a swarm of bees
colonizing in your head,
mouth filled with volcanic ash, listening to the pathetic
playing of your upstairs neighbor.
Observing on the floor the pile of clothes
that wore you last night.
It’s going to be another wasted day, you tell yourself.
But then, is there not something glorious in the very
act of wasting?
Is there not an art to uncaring, to being comfortably
separated from all things?
Is there not wisdom in forgetting
about money, luck, success and hope
for a moment?
Remembering that everything eventually
finds its way
to in the same dumpster fire.
And that the life of a man
never was much more than a season’s harvest,
or a rainy day in some
a few hundred years ago.
You roll over on your side and start feeling a little less guilty.
that fucking keyboard
and these fucking bees humming in your head
and that one fucking
up a pigeon feather
and a pile of