Sirens at 6 AM
the women are beautiful
the noise doesn’t bother me
I’m not working
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.
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
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.