there are eels in desert

you wake up. your girlfriend says goodbye as she leaves to go to work. you say something, in your moon-logic child mind. yes, she says, the water did spill. and it is saccharine sweet. you think about it when your alarm goes off a fraction of an hour later. and you turn off the alarm. you are tired but awake. awake and alone, rudderless. here you are in your bed. in your place where you belong. in the place where you begin and end every day. always you leave the bed, always you return. it is the best bed you have ever owned. and that means a lot. it means progress. it means you are knowing what you want and knowing how to get it. but does it mean you can support it. do you deserve it. you have had worse beds and worked harder for them. isn't that unfair. it is hard to spend this time in extacy. imagine if you could sleep like you do and every night the night before you had to wake early for a job you hated that seemed like it never would end. but life isn't like that. you are a little cowboy, and you ride through the desert before you ride through the forest. and thats just how the trees got planted.

i am smoking a joint in the queensbridge projects
flying away, all swag
and this finger pattern is me justifying my existence. what does it mean to be more conscious than the next? i am no happier for it. can you take it for granted, consciousness. can you feel undeserving of it. can you be working on appreciating it and finding a way to not be so undeserving.

when i was 31 years old i would wake from my light sleep to the sound a church bell alarm. the same phone i'd had since i was 26, with the alarm clock noises changed every six to eight months, just to keep things interesting. most of the time i would be hung over. all of the time i would be late. all of the time i would put something in my mouth to smoke. sometimes it was a cigarette, sometimes a weed pipe. getting through the day was not a celebration, it was a rehearsal of numbness. i knew somewhere in my heart that this was not best practice. i really had to do it though. sitting in a padded cell, with the sun making its motions across the sky without my oversight was too painful a vision, it had to be done.

a business is built on two things; excellent customer relations and back breaking labor. i am no golden goose, but i understand that equation and in so doing make myself indispensable. so i listen to the single mothers and broken english. i can nod and sympathize, and give my condolences and my false hope. and i can turn back to my computer and work on the spreadsheets and the hoops brackets that make such class stasis possible.

then i woke up on friends couch. coming down off a white drug high, it was raining outside, the apartment was disgusting. i decided to get a colorful tattoo of a hunt, with the hunted animal over my heart. then i decided to move to denmark. fuck it. fuck this job i hate, fuck these drugs, fuck the grind. i'm going to europe to eat pastries and wear scarves.