Midsummer’s Day – Travelling through space

I wake up hungover

and want to have sex.

My bed is empty

apart from myself.


What will I do with today?

The kitchen needs cleaning,

the body needs exercise

the book still needs writing.

But nothing I do

seems good enough to me.


I fear what I might write

after such a long time.

The could is exceptional

the am just okay.


If I can’t be the best

then why be at all?

My work is grounded in feeling

rather than voice.

Or thought

rather than plot.

Which doesn’t make “good.”


But nothing in life

be it writing, the kitchen, the body,

is ever finished.

We are like the planets

microbes and particles

of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon

travelling through space

obeying the laws of physics.


We aren’t beings.


We are collections.


And we’re never finished.


Success and happiness

do not exist

for particles.


So I might just as well












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