Ennui

The word slings pretension
like a post-modern David.

A stone from his folded strap
that missed its mark, that lies
in the dried-out brush
ignored by foot and beak,
waiting for a heavy rain
to carry it whichever way
the gradient flows,
or to at least wash off the dust:
I am that sometimes (I lied

I am that mostly.)

I do not lack charisma,
there was just no room for it
with the acne medication in the cabinet
and urn of vaseline on the dresser.
It did not salve my rippling skin.
I threw it away like a good garbage tosser.

I've got a bloody nose
and a fecal anus,
and there's arctic water
trickling through my thighs.
And my face is burning, burning,
a wooden cross on a scorched summer lawn.

I will not get ketchup on my tie
today. I will not let my coffee
bubble out its holey cover. I will not
mark my hands with black ink
and fingerprint my desk
like a criminal.
I will not be interrogated.

Poor grey telephone
all alone all alone.
I kiss your mouth
with rubbing alcohol.
You are grey as ashes,
and I will wait in earnest
for you to ring me asleep.