What did you think
it was going to be like —
all roses? All French
perfume? All the cliches
you could think of?
Whatever.
Now you know it is
none of those things.

It is having to think
to change levels — from
sitting still to standing, from
walking on to sitting down.

You don’t lie down without
thinking about it. Far be it from me
you get on the floor
to seek your shoes — getting up
is an award winning accomplishment —
they ought to pin a medal on you
for doing so without puking.

What it did to you in terms of thought
is another matter, or the same matter.
You don’t think much of anything.
You don’t say much, either; less and less
as the day goes on, and dear God —
it always does. You think you are straight
and then you are thrown a curve and you
lose the thread entirely and fall into
your hole and nothing happens there
except blankness and blackness and dirt.

What did you expect — some beautiful
realness? This is what’s real. “Reality Bites.”
That was a movie you saw once.
You don’t recall a thing about it
except the name, and that’s as it should be;
it bites hard, it bites slowly and grinds
its jaws exceedingly fine and twice as slowly.

One day, you’re going to die
and what they do with the remains
won’t matter to you. You’re already there,
after all. Bury you or burn you, chop you up
for science or for donation to — who?
The less fortunate? The more wealthy
to cover the cost? It’s a laugh. You
won’t care. What matters is that
for a time you lived and you got to a point
where you don’t recall living.
What did you expect? Angels or devils
or coming wearily back to do all this shit again?
What, exactly, do you expect?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward?
T