van Gogh's final shot at the big time

these dirty roads lead nowhere,

there’s really nothing out here,

save for a tear in the eye,

and a rough ride,

just dead ends and pot holes,

tired, salt-stained metal,

creaking with the weight of day,

no ultimate direction,

I take small pieces of pleasure from the platter of pain,

postponing what I know is coming,

and no it’s not "my shot,"

and no, no amount of social media can save me,

(that black hole into our collective mental illness),

the universe doesn’t care about our frustration,

or the level of consciousness on which we operate,

the false modesty,

the uncanny ability to feign humility while subtly downplaying the accomplishments of others,

or pretend tolerance while criticizing the opinions of others,

c’mon now,

are you sitting by the mailbox?

smoking your last Indigenous cigarette?

waiting for glory? 

what’s glory?

when is glory?

let’s get serious,

shut up and work,

with luck or without,

because it’s who you are,

drag your stone,

like everyone else,

some babies get hit by missile shrapnel,

bodies burned and limbs torn,

some babies die before they're born,

are you better?

life is a dirty sidewalk,

a lonely weekend,

a toothache,

a line of urinals filled with the tepid piss of a thousand drunk business men,

a disgraced politician,

an old man undressed,

Violette Morris’ last country drive,

van Gogh's bullet to the chest,

am I any better?