all the memories

There’s no point to any of this— the word after fucking word, the day after fucking day. I don’t have reasons, I have antecedents. I don’t have plans, I have habits. I’ve been on the bench so long, I might as well be dropped from the roster. That I waste the space to elaborate my disgrace, this empty ever after. That I haven’t fled the map altogether my continued shame. The melted wax of happenstance consumes the altar altogether.

Only the relentlessness of the light that’s always on. The drone of the fan and the face in the dirty mirror. The tentative joints and stiffened ligaments, the testimony of ancient blows, and the failings of the frame. Getting back up breaks even, at best. Thorny composers ringing the same old rosies. Each day a little more blood per bloom.

This should be the end of it. The dreadful dredge at long last done, the record set. All these days that never should have happened all the memories left. But nothing is as it should be as we all are what we are. Garbage day is every day there is.