Wednesday, October 21, 2009


sometimes it seems like
the goddamn cynics
and nihilists are right,

that nothing really matters,

as in no thing, be it ideological or
conceptual, abstract or
intellectual, has any material
tangibility (figuratively speaking,
I mean),

no real meaning or applicability
to anything,

as in nothing can mean or equate
or add up to something greater
than just a lumpy sum of parts;

no doing "this, this and this"
thereby making it reasonably
safe to assume, to expect,
to predict, even, with some degree
of accuracy, some degree of
substantiation in the world.

Or, at least that's the line
of reasoning I use, occasionally,
to justify and/or excuse those days
that come along every now and then,

when you wake up around ten or eleven
and maybe it's grey and raining
and thundering out there,

or, maybe even a quaint, postcard perfect
or phone book cover photo
of a Spring day:

either way, probably best to spend
the better part of it in bed,

the shades pulled down most of the way,
some solo Monk piano on the radio,
a box fan blowing out a rough accompaniment
from the corner,

and nothing to do but drink beer
and write poems (maybe even one
about drinking beer and writing poems
in bed all day).

-Jason Ryberg, 2009

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