SUCKY POETS SOCIETY

what’s the price of this make-believe security
which i contemplate sitting on a toiletseat
of this 8 by 6 bathroom, shower and tub
cleaned every week by a half-mexican custodian
what did i pay
and how
if not me, who did
i feel sick dave, your weed is too good for me
i swear i’ll give up cigarrettes
confused
reclined on a 7 by 3 sofa, stare at the TV, its not mine
what should i watch
mutilated hands of a diamond miner in sierra leone
wet, rotting bodies in banda aceh
taped to be shown again and again on history channel
the reporters’ efforts shall not go wasted
there’s all on TV
glories of human achievement as contemplated by stephen hawkins
eating disorders of dennis quaid
just sit and stare
voyeurized
by graceful hip-swings of perfect bodies
traumatized
by middle-aged women using facial-hair-clippers
"it made no sense, us watching hollywood movies back home"
"and now you’re here, isnt that wonderful"
just another disgruntled consumer of beef jerky and beer
a victim of sweet romantic words
and pseudo-intellectual cogitation
just another reclusive sociopath
just another catatonic bathroom philospher