(an exercise in futility)
It wasn’t going to be this.
I should write an autobiography,
and entitle it Losing My Education.
Or, How to Complain More as the
Life You Worked Like Mad to Achieve
Is Frittered Away. But, me? I can’t
become the very templates of the folks
(particularly men), mostly academics, older,
complaining about how they had been
ripped off from gaining whatever
achievements they’d set their sights
toward however long ago their youth
It wasn’t going to be this.
I should write an autobiography,
and entitle it Losing My Education.
Or, How to Complain More as the
Life You Worked Like Mad to Achieve
Is Frittered Away. But, me? I can’t
become the very templates of the folks
(particularly men), mostly academics, older,
complaining about how they had been
ripped off from gaining whatever
achievements they’d set their sights
toward however long ago their youth
might have been. Nor would I have
any desire to become any of the
numerous business executives for and
around whom I have worked some
three decades plus, who at every
corner, eyes rolling back into my
head each time one of them is
turned, there’d be 3-year, 5-year,
10-year and 20-year plans sliding
around whom I have worked some
three decades plus, who at every
corner, eyes rolling back into my
head each time one of them is
turned, there’d be 3-year, 5-year,
10-year and 20-year plans sliding
hot and dry from the color printer.
There were only two fixtures that
never failed to show up in these:
dollar signs and a human figure inching
dollar signs and a human figure inching
its way up some career ladder, atop
which lies the inevitable nest egg for
a retirement that, with focus
so intent upon said egg,
one likely could never
begin to enjoy. Because
one likely could never
begin to enjoy. Because
there is always more to
be made, higher offices
in which to lay down
brief stakes. It sounds
remorsefully tempting for me
to imagine, however, anything
gained with as much regularity
as the losses that I keep accruing.
And that, from me, is more than a
brief stakes. It sounds
remorsefully tempting for me
to imagine, however, anything
gained with as much regularity
as the losses that I keep accruing.
And that, from me, is more than a
regretful and foul-tempered complaint.
Therefore, I’ll screw myself back together
and somehow imagine the yet-to-
Therefore, I’ll screw myself back together
and somehow imagine the yet-to-
appear rainbows which will inevitably
surround me. And the races won
to the end of each, where would
to the end of each, where would
always lie pots of glimmering
gold. Somehow. Happiness
being just a state of mind,
easily adjusted, etc. And so,
I look around at each
adjacent horizon,
connecting them
all together
being just a state of mind,
easily adjusted, etc. And so,
I look around at each
adjacent horizon,
connecting them
all together
in my mind’s
eye until they’re
some stunningly
gorgeous walls
that each begin
to look top-heavy,
slanting ever angularly,
toward me, with seeming
eye until they’re
some stunningly
gorgeous walls
that each begin
to look top-heavy,
slanting ever angularly,
toward me, with seeming
intent upon burying me
entirely, deep beneath
each angular juxtaposition.
And, sure enough, or can’t
you see, isn’t this about
the moment when that
crescent of hope begins
to glimmer,
putting the
fix on all of
this morbid
nonsense?
I think
my sliver
may have
been recently
devalued thanks
to my mood, which,
the moment when that
crescent of hope begins
to glimmer,
putting the
fix on all of
this morbid
nonsense?
I think
my sliver
may have
been recently
devalued thanks
to my mood, which,
in turn, reflects and
influences my current
24-hour plan, which by the hour
shows my chances of survival
diminish. The chiseling
away of any hope.
Nope. I cannot
at present even begin
to get to any sunshine
from where I am now.
