I started the day dusting off my eyelids
scraping the crust from my eyes
looking around at my disheveled apartment
clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink,
papers, mounds of papers of unopened and opened mail,
lying in a semi-circle on the living room floor
last night's half smoked joint (the end of my productivity)
left on a notebook on the couch
I'm in one of those moods again
where everything is getting done but nothing seems
to be taking any form or semblance of order
I'm leaving and that's all I can think about.
The trees, the birds, the friends, the disconnection
to a screen, to a scene, to a home, to a job.
Dragging my feet to work, I have been late
this entire month. I am amazed I'm still
going at all. At the end of my rope with this.