songs from suburbia, part 22

what you can’t do for me: snap the horizon in two, fill in
the gaps of my memory, make decent eggs. i wrote you a poem
but you didn’t know it was about you. and you. and you.
some days there is nothing better than indolence, not having
to get up and go to the office, where you only want to
repeatedly slam your head inside the photocopier. i try
to have conversation about meaningful things, but my words
are like so many blades of grass. cut this monoculture
with a pair of scissors, measure to the centimeter your
greenness. unaware that there are cross hairs aimed at
the back of your head. i denounced materialism but kept
my ipod, of course. suburban life leaves me empty as
the bird feeder you fill with snow-melt pellets. stupid
birds. stupid dead birds. wait for the rain that will
wash me away into the sewers, know that i will be in
that glass of water you drink. i will only tell you
once to get out of the house before i burn it down.

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