“Then forth he came, his both
knees faltring, both
His strong hands hanging downe,
and all with froth
His cheeks and nosthrils flowing,
voice and breath
Spent all to use, and down he
sunke to Death.
The sea had soakt his heart
through; all his vaines
His toils had racked t’a laboring
Dead weary was he.”
– Keats’ favorite lines from Chapman’s Homer
Tired. Tuckered, puckered, knocked out. I am so tired. Tired of being a man and the flesh I’m found in. Tired of counting my beating heart and waiting on a number that has yet come up, tired of doctors and little paper cups.
Tired. Kaput. Fire to soot. I am so tired. Tired like a stone that’s seen it all or a tree that’s withstood the fall, the inventions of eyes or the wooings of artists (those spies). Tired to death, even too tired to die. Tired. Tired of writing, why, why, why ???????
Tired of fires that can’t butt go out, tired of facts and figures (how does it figure?), tired of posture and procedure – that things just go on and on and on, tired of getting up each aching dawn.
Tired of the smell of tires and the squeal of civilization, tired of the flowers that just die in the vase, tired of the next craze and the fool that asks for another one. Tired, too tired even to be amazed.
Tired of obsolescence, the devirgined moon, the squeaky obscurity of scholars and the heavy eyes of noon. Tired of slowly growing old and watching others die, tired, just tired of so many goodbyes.
Tired of selling and buying (nothing that IS, lasts), tired of crying cuz I lost my gold god damned watch (bought another), tired of beauty smothered, a curse and condition we’ve caught.
Tired of language emptied of effort, the babble of idiots adding to unmeasure, tired of the noise and the party line, even tired of red wine, so often I’ve heard it slurped.
Tired of rich food and rich men (always asking, when?), tired of art and the anything it can be, tired of counting and pretending to be free, tired of looking at the sadness of death everywhere buried deep (even in sleep), who gives a bleep?
Tired of the silence of soap operas, the TV’s hypnotic glow, of sing-songs and friends saying so-so, tired of gossip and the snitching we’re always itching with. Tired, tired, I don’t know. I can’t imagine why.
Tired of progress as it does undress, leaving nothing for the eyes, tired of hope and holding on, not giving up the ghost but always asking why. Tired of questions, the same answers – nothing new, so few I dos. Just ask, watch the nightly news.
Tired of page turning, prepositions purposely misplaced, tired of saving face, culture and its clown paint, tired, so damn tired I think I’m gonna faint – my brain just can’t relate, predicate.
Tired of getting up and going to bed, tired of cafes and the silence they shed. Tired of waiting in so many lines, tired, the authentic always one step behind, weighted down, future blind. My O My! Living is so unkind.
Tired of laughs (cuz the jokes on us), tired of forgetting and the “your supposed to have fun.” Tired of the heavy cross and the pettiness of a boss that never shows his face. Tired, tired, waste, waste, waste.
Tired of tears that just come again. Like I said, tired of waiting and looking for what remains. Tired of hope and horoscopes and new hair, tired of swinging on the rope of despair (but who would care?).
Tired of words (so misunderstood) and tired of drinking (so misunderstood), just to drink again (when will it ever end?), tired of dancing, the music’s left the land, tired of it all, tired as a man can.
Tired of cleaning my nails, of wiping my ass, tired of widows’ window wails. Tired of broken dishes and car crashes, even tired of flicking ashes, Ecclesiastes, vanitas veritas, all else passes, but the earth abideth forever (which is the same as never).
Tired of trying my best, of getting ahead (and getting head), tired of sensation and the days that bend, into each other without end. Tired of alarm clocks and the secret message they send.
Tired of toasters and technology – buttons, dials, switches and knobs. Tired of telephones and the red light flashing on. Tired of escalators and elevators (the endless up and down), tired of traffic and transit (the continual getting off and getting around).
|Humboldt Fleischer||as himself|