Some Dark Arc

here in the middle of my life it occurs to me

this would be a convenient time for it to end, the arc

has reached a nice conclusion: born, celebrated, fallen.

it would save the trouble of rebuilding anything

and only a few children, i suppose, would really notice

how this degenerate they did not know as such

no longer haunted earth. otherwise, i guess

a parent or two, some siblings, a few clueless friends

would sometimes pause and grieve a minute before

shrugging on. you could see a therapist, they’d say

if i explained the convenient situation to them: as if

reframing, as if tricking myself, were change.

no, maybe i should anyway. but laying things out

here on the table, as it were, like a surgeon’s tools

i sneer at the lack: of sex, of company, of community,

of purpose, of meaning, of plans, of hope.




“what the fuck,” he whispers and climbs

over the banister very conveniently




in an imagination, which perhaps counts

as suicidal ideation—you could see a therapist,

i tell myself, but instead i light a cigarette

and gird my loins. be a man, watch the kids,

laugh like none of this is starving or suffocating me

here in the middle of my life, which is the end

of some dark arc.

bar monologue

there’s nothing to say

at this bar—

well i’m just going to force it




it’s hard to pity someone

who’s doing such a good job of it themselves

i said once, about—

well, i realize now: myself.




do you (who? nobody would) remember—

never mind.







7/3/24