on what blackens my days (8 feb 2010)

birthdays were never much fun
there was something disorienting
about the disappointment
of anticipation
the creation and concentration
of hope

just like every other day really

[whose fault am i?
who takes responsibility for me?]

and its just like the black ale
i just finished
my camera case and
my black peacoat

the things that blacken my day[s]
are lovely
birthdays are lovely
philosophy is lovely
cafes :: lovely
the green lady, booze, and cigarettes
all so goddam lovely

and somehow the combination
of such things
creates a wound

check it:
a gash on my forehead
just about my left eyebrow
blood dripping down
framing me in red
like fourth of july face-paint

its
some sort of unholy sacrifice
or rather
some sort of bastardized penance
and not to a god
that i don't believe in
but to
to
to
this
godforsaken
godless
and
goddam
lovely
humanity.

but its all a tad narcissistic

for grace so loved the world
that she gashed her only head
that whoever validates her
shall not benefit
but have inherited fault

that is to say
i am my own fault
and i will take
responsibility
for me

waking up in the morning
isn't much fun
there is something disorienting
about disappointment
the anticipation
the creation and concentration
of being alive