Sirens at 6 AM

the women are beautiful

the noise doesn’t bother me

I’m not working

I’m resting

in this quiet apartment

I am a student of math

What do I add to my life to make it better?

What do I take away?

Most men believe

adding more, is the solution

They know they are supposed to eat less

but they eat more

“I’ve got a fat ass,” one of them says

It’s his way of making light, of his heaviness

People are afraid of loss

but losing what they have

will make them free.

Men want a wife to go home to

even if, she drives him, to the edge of his sanity

and mark my words

she has a license to kill

How many couples are happily married?

How many people love their jobs?

To be content, without misery

is advanced calculus

I was playing golf, yesterday—quite badly

I hooked my shot, on number 13

Two X, bad cops picked up my ball in their power cart

One, was smoking a long cigar and the other wore a gold bracelet

“What are you playing?” He asked.


“Oh—you mean Srixon. You probably hit it bad because you can’t pronounce it right.” He threw my ball on the grass and drove off.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the gay guy in my group said.

“He’s probably been drinking,” I sighed.

The wind was blowing white clouds across a blue sky on the green golf course. It was 70 degrees.

Will a better job improve my life?

Will a girlfriend make me feel better?

No. It’s obvious, that the less I have, the better I feel.

Being less than zero, allows all the ones

to add to my negativity—

those beautiful ones

enter my emptiness

where I have made room

to become full


The women at work are competing with me

but I have no desire to play their games

One, saw me in the hallway yesterday, and redirected her route, away from me

I am a numbers guy

and I am not offended by her, not wanting to add to my company

One, told me, “Lisa is doing more evaluations than you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah. I had lunch with her this weekend.” She told me.

She said this like, other people know you’re an asshole now.

There is…

a time to sleep

a time to die


a time to move on

My time might be coming due

All the perfect predictable numbers I created

will be scattered

by randomness

while I try to order them

like a child building a sand castle

with careful accounting

on the beaches of contentment

when the waves come in.


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