Terrible burrs thrown at me today,
tanked smell from a brain that is yellow-green
from years of various kinds of abuse.
My stack approaches me but it whispers,
“You are a modern idiot.” And I agree.
I sink in the chair trying not to hurt my back,
then trying to warp it out of shape,
twist a bit of agony up from the tired leather
to a brain that cannot channel in on anything.
Spared of green slobber this morning,
I decide it is appropriate for me to do the thing
where one step follows the other.
“Why do I have a conscience?
All it does is fuck with me.”
Why am I conscious?
It is better for me to float down the stream.
The stream is polluted,
causing fear in me,
but I think I have died before.