It’s all the same
My eyes burn every night
Staring at this lonely old monolithic
My bones ache
My heart snores
How many more words must I make
to sing, to dance, to procreate
before the time is done
and I get to rest?
Before we ALL get to rest?
Even now, this monitor mocks me
These click-clacking keyboard keys haunt me
And it’ll be the same story tomorrow
And until this world comes into its petty pace
Life’s a game and all’s a stage and I’m just gonna keep
playing my part
until the chickens come home to roost
or the crows, as some may say.
How do I apologize
for not writing more
in this odd paradoxical moment of laziness?
My eyes can hear
My ears can see
Does any of this make sense to you
Or just me?
Light, what hither yonder breaks?
Why, it’s the poetics of young Ismael
A lonely hac
k who can’t cut it anymore
The life of a man who just doesn’t really know
what hither, yonder, thither, and all of that other crap
Am I right or am I right?
So, here’s to words
I guess I know how to use them
Even in these cycles of self-fulfilling poetry, yeah yeah yeah
Everybody’s looking for a hero
Whether a scientist or an artist or a model or some little teen bop pukester
But, who finds heroes in wrestling?
You’re reading the words of that person:
Most of all, I want to be like Rowdy Roddy Piper
To kick ass and chew bubblegum
and do things my way
With no quarter given
and none returned
I want to be the first Ismael Santos,
and I have Rowdy Roddy Piper to thank for.