maybe you're a
writer. not
a musician.
or maybe both --
i say to myself. or i
thought, rather.
"both." ha ha ha
my hard-working family must be
overcome with joy.
they can visit my apartment to
see "how its coming along"
as i'm sure they've
dreamt.
"Oh, it's going just great!"
i would slur.
"Come in."
they'd smile, step
over a threshold of trash bags
all full (beer cans mostly),
ignore the smell
(bless their hearts),
and find themselves witnessing my
slow rise, or my even slower
descent.
i'd show them the kitchen
first. (it's nearest the front door)
and my best guess
is that they'd
be speechless. disgusted.
whilst i stood, weirdly humored.
Look! I'm alive!
and this is how i do it.
then the livingroom, i suppose.
more cans. a lot
more. and in their
heads, they'd say:
"my god, this is where they
keep the paraphenelia!"
trash everywhere. dishes, note-
books, papers, food, a man who's name is
unknown to me, empty
little plastic bags, one
half-full one,
stains, and ash.
and of course, the
cans.
i doubt they would make it through
the rest of the place.
small as it may be. but
i think, if so, the tour would continue
likewise.
what could they say?
so now, i'm nineteen
years old, not in school, with
minimum-wage
employment,
bad credit, and lots of debt.
i am an alcoholic who
consumes more pot than
alcohol, i prefer to do
nothing
most of the time,
and i am further along
than any of those English
major's, and Music major's,
with all their
values, and
security, and
piss-free brains.
but there is ONE thing
that might please them
(my family, that is):
i wrote THIS poem
completly sober,
from the comfort of my
low stress,
minimum-wage-paying
workplace.
