Nothing we want to do makes us employable:
my friend wants to dress in drag and take pictures in the forest.
That’s not a career (nor is it a joke because This is a Serious Poem).
"How much will this job affect my skin?"
because my skin’s already ruined
or at least that’s what commercials indicate,
and I’m still single.
I’m beginning to think all the jobs I can take will ensure I’m single forever;
always separated, always an ‘individual.’
We’re escaping from: despair, ennui, hope…
If I were Walt Whitman I’d list where we’re escaping too,
but lists aren’t poetic anymore;
lists are for grocery stores, Christmas, and Buzzfeed.
So much isn’t poetic anymore;
I would say what’s poetic, but that’s not poetic; that would be a list,
and also ‘polemic’ (‘arguments’ aren’t poetic either).
Every Damn Day(TM)
I go to my devotions; it’s a list of books to read,
and pray for more moments
like the moment when I see the list and sense all the emotions these books might bring me.
My life is too long,
and what I remember is the moments….
and I only want those.
Not a job. Not a career.
Just the moments.
I’d sell everything else for those moments.