Writer Between Worlds

tired 
of missing out, losing out, 
lucking out, 
tired 
of swallowing my sweat 
chasing some simulated rainbow 
in a system of sprinklers designed to cool and coddle 
only the very few.
tired 
of trying hard to be those few, 
of figuring out what to do, how to duck, when to feign. 
tired 
of the spin doctors and their dangling lures, 
the rage bait that lands with a punch & the pimped desires 
that leave you dry-mouthed when you 
bite into them,
tired 
of the greed, the graft, and the paying, 
the constant paying.
tired 
of the rustling of money and sheets, 
tired 
of the hard-sell and the soft-sell and buying 
the buzz, and buying 
a stake in the bankrupt casino, 
and buying more time and never
never
buying yourself out. 
tired 
of all the bullshit and the bullshitters 
promising heaven 
if only 
you carved a big slice of yours to hand over,  
tired 
so tired of the safety-choosers, the bowed 
heads gossiping in silence, munching away 
at their souls and 
their livers 
in silence. 
tired 
of the pills and the joints and the wellness 
against the piling of pain and the cruelty and the 
fermentation of truth and the boiling, 
the boiling,
the boiling 
of individual 
voids. 
tired 
of the cruiseships spewing diesel in oceans
and the panting of dying 
whales on our beaches, 
tired 
of fire 
in the dire Amazon and of green turning gray for 
more 
cattle, 
I have a beef with
more, more, 
more red meat for your gut 
cancer -   
cureless, - less, less,
everywhere
less trees,
tired 
of kids not learning shit except 
how to smile fakely at their own reflection 
and wear clothes that say 'burn up more clothes' 
with every one of their chemical fibers - 
fast fashion, thy brand is Destruction!
tired 
of the lies that come packaged in smiles, 
tired 
of the groupthink and all the non-thinking, 
tired 
of the gullible and the clueless, 
tired 
of politics, of competition, of the magnificent 
illusion of choice and the born-into yoke of
liability and duty. 
tired 
of the self-aggrandizers, the minimizers, the 
patronizers, 
tired 
of this desert of feeling, where is 
the sweet-water oasis? where is the evergreen? 
the soft-scented glade? 
tired
of the sand - and the sillicon - hissing, 
tired 
of walking and walking and walking until 
we cannot feel our parched lips, our burned soles, 
our chopped hands. until we forget we once 
had them, and they were full and fleshy and soft; 
armless, unarmed, thirsty and tired we tread, 
sipping the last drop of drink in the desert,
tired 
of shouldering this deadly steel sky, 
the looming wars, and the crumbling future 
so that our kids can still find 
some shelter. 

exhausted. 
too damn exhausted to complain. 

reset, humanity. now.
really.