I never realized that your valedictory
Was a foreboding of sorts.
Why read you now, now that the waiting is over
And judgment has been rendered,
And sentence meted to a life
Of forever clinging to the unclingable,
Of the never-ending days waking up
And dragging myself to a dreary end
Of unending chatter from morn till dusk?
Try to give yourself more time, you say, to create;
What a fortunate bastard you must be,
WhileI, in my desperation, contemplate a future
Of uncreating, inertia, ennui,
Doing the same things over and over,
A clown and creature incomplete, broken
Into minute pieces of guffaws and nothingness,
A hole in the scheme of god’s righteous world.
