by Damion Hamilton
It seems like that is all I really know
The narrow confines of my existence
The sun rises and falls somewhere,
And all living things, move, work struggle and fight
Carrying a bucket of water, while the sun
Bangs the day’s rhythm on my arms
There’s a war going on, all the time
The cars move along the interstate carrying strangers
You watch cars along the interstate long enough,
And you will wonder about all the different
People in them
All the people I can not possible know
Im in the narrow confines of my being, carry
A bucket from a dehumidifier.
As the kids riot in London--the radio tells me this
The television screens, and computers tell me
About celebrities and the stock market
The US credit rating has been downgraded, like my
Personal one
It will be burning and humid again--100 degrees
Sometimes I feel somewhat calm, when the world
Is telling me to worry and panic
Chicago, Miami and Budapest are out there
But, I don’t want these places
Maybe a pitcher of beer for my nerves,
And a baseball game
Pujolos wants 300 million, and he
Continues to hit them out the park
I coulda chose a dozens of bars to go
To, yet I chose the one im at
But ill sit there and sometimes think I
Shoulda gone some were else
And listened to the voice in my head
In the narrow confines of my existence
Leaving the bar, after waiting for the
Alcohol buzz to get lighter
Taking the Interstate 70 and hoping that
The cops don’t fuck wit me
About expired tags on my car
Or think that I’m high or buzzed (I’m not)
Then getting home
Escaping the daily war of the nerves
Exhausted, bent, hopeless, hopeful
And tired
Falling asleep in my clothes,
Without TV or dinner
In the narrow confines of my existence
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