“Wasted Space”

Life’s little dramas display with every blink, every breath
Like scenes unfolding in a cabaret
So many people, so many self-important parasites
Each continuing the same charade
Bantering back and forth
A congratulatory smile, a disapproving frown
The expected responses fall on cue
From so many socialites, giving until it is again their turn to take
Little worlds within their eyes
Little worlds within their minds
A seemingly infinite number of ideas, yet
None of them original
On days like this I feel alone
In a little world of my making
Where I sit and watch them blundering along
Waiting for something interesting to happen
Waiting for someone to look back at me
And say
Have you ever noticed how small we all are?
How insignificant?
How unimportant?
And I would say yes, yes I have
For I, like you, am small
With my tiny thoughts
In such a grand space
With such endless possibly
When I should be creating worlds
Building cathedrals to fill my mind
I sit, and wonder at the lot of you

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.


“From One Concerned Ape to Another”

my tea set was made in England
it’s quite beautiful, delicate,
white porcelain painted blue with golden trim
purchased second-hand at an antiques shoppe
turning it over in my hand,
my calloused, worker’s hand
I cannot help but think
how decadent we are
what, I wonder would it have taken
in 1900, for me, working class, lower class citizen
to own such a bit of finery
from a land an ocean away
I suspect at least several months wages
if I was willing to go without
if I wasn’t already starving
more likely, I
would never even see such a thing
nor dare touch it
that was not today’s America, decadent America

saw a documentary
some small town in Russia
(it’s always Russia)
there’s a metaphor there
about anti-communist propaganda
but I digress
market shelves were nearly empty
a young mother
looked old beyond her years
talked excitedly because
for the first time in months
they had cheese
my cupboard, sparse by my standard
canned soup and a loaf of bread
bit of butter in the fridge
(that’s right, I own an ice box)
along with too many bottles of plastic
filled with fresh water
that I can replenish with a twist of a knob
(if I pry my ass from my cushioned chair)
oh America, it is any wonder why we’re so hated

no mobsters will come to my door
demanding payment, or else
no, they do so in secret
through my taxes and corporate societal “needs”
and I have the freedom to say this, and worse
without fear
of men in black at my door
slipping a hood over my head, and I
never to be seen again
maybe I watch too much tv
free media, free state
corrupt, as are they all, yet, I
complaining I
with my first world problems
live in safety, in comfort
so long as I dance to the tune of capitalism

live to complain about my 11 hour day
in climate-controlled building
where my greatest fear is another first world citizen
with too many freedoms
too many drugs and too many guns
too many opinions
too many dreams unrealized
so rich are we
who can afford to dream
who have never suffered true tyranny, true loss
true hopelessness
true poverty

perspective is a hell of a thing

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Quiet Honesty”

silence is often underrated
and time,
sweet, viscous time,
an asset oft given too freely
though I may want complain
in truth I have so much
a vast wealth of life, of choice
and so today I take a moment
of quiet meditation and
a steaming cup of tea
to reflect
to enjoy
there will be no vows I know I’ll break
about my future self, and time
only a moment
of quiet honesty

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Me , Myself and Wine”

It is late
too late, truly for any self-respecting employee to be up
filling glasses and bellies and notebooks yet
here we are, flush-faced and warm
anxious with alertness, seeking a familiar numbness
today-well, yesterday now
doesn’t really matter
not the boss, nor the underlings
nor the smiles nor disputes of home
nor does it matter that I have a home, or a job
these identifiers put me in a majority
if it helps you better classify and catalogue my identity
may as well kill the bottle, only half a glass left
stare into the garnet red and become
become what we will
tired, come morning
and for what?
a ponderance on how Ginsberg became so compassionate
on how Bukowski loved his ugly world
on how impossibly small our reflections are
tonight we drink with Dylan Thomas
and we’ll talk about our mothers
yes, we will drink deeply
and think deep thoughts
knowing that all the while
no one will listen
knowing that we have done nothing
even if we have accomplished something
if it helps us sleep tonight

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.