Yawning Towards Guernica to be Born

It so happens I’m tired
Of not being able to tell you
What I’m tired of.

Dull thirty-eight-eyed apathy,
Here’s my professional smile.

Screen-livers, blissful killers
Of HD enemies,
Laughing Picassoless packs:

Here is uncold cold,
Hot tiny haiku ices
Pricking 3-D cheeks.

Feel. You study Guernica
For the dates, perhaps
The gentleman’s C.

How boring to be tired like this.
The day the paper is due,
Half the class goes missing.

Our apathy is bigger
Than absent Mondays,
Late October fog,

Synthetic
Carpet hallways
And free popcorn.

Tired of Excel sheets
And my own signature,
I swallow complaint.
Eat paper. Gag. Pay bills.

It drives me to seek
Nothing in everything.
Some brand of happy nihilism.

Brave the hollow!
Like Neruda’s woody root
Moved through,
Words spread out, destined.

Rhyzomic, blind and empty.
We reach to mean outwardly.

But let’s say our word-carved features
Are simply furniture rearranged.

We’ll never know who is sitting
In us, for how long, or where.
But surely, the who will get tired
Of the view and move on.

2013