This seems a grim hole to bury
my outdated wardrobe.
Each season, I probe deeper
and deeper and still can’t seem
to get as deep as I want.
I still sleep on a mattress stuffed
with foreign currency,
foreign names, foreign exchanges.
My vocal range still not up to snuff,
and my off-the-cuff remarks regarding
politics are still offensive to decent people.
In the recent past, I had this passe
notion of passion that ruined
every potential sexual escapade
to the point where I gave up
on getting laid, and took a half-hearted
vow of chastity. Somehow, my libido
grew worse. I composed countless
verses on love and shoved them
all into the mouth of my wasted youth,
hoping they tasted just as bitter
as they read. When my youth later
turned up dead, I could only feign
so much surprise. Now, the eyes
of drought are upon me, fixing
to lay waste to my pasty landscape,
shaping a Sahara with their gaze,
and I’m either too crazy or too lethargic
to do anything about it.
I’m out six grand and 27 years,
but I still have my irrational fear
of anxiety to carry me through
the worst of trials. I’ll shove my heart
in the fathomless dark
of my hometown if it keeps me
from going out of style.