Living

Broken by Ian Erickson. Written during an independent study in college and published in 2008. It is available for purchase on Amazon or Barnes and Nobles in e-book and soft cover. You can also email me at ian@newmediacentral.net if you'd like a PDF.

If you are familiar with anything I have written here, or have listened to my show, The Patriarchy Show, I have not published any poetry in a long time. Also, if you enjoy my other work, this is a bit different being it is poetry. While articles, books, or podcasts can go on to sermonize or explain a topic and all the topic’s intricacies poetry is different. I had a mentor & English professor (now a close friend) in college that would tell me things about poetry such as it is “like a diamond, it is condensed, concentrated truth.”

It has been years since I have written a poem and it hits on various current topics.

With that enjoy, and if you like it, you can always check out my book. DM me on Twitter if you’d like a PDF version of the book for free.

Living

A fly spews regurgitated crap and saliva into my half-opened mouth as I sleep.
A second later I rapidly blink and then stare at the ceiling as icy sweat pours from my forehead.
I pull my phone from under my pillow while shaking off the foggy dullness of awakening.
I squint my eyes to see the time.
It was an hour before the alarm goes off.
It is pointless to go back to sleep.

I mumble something that in times past would’ve been construed as a prayer.
I stumble into the bathroom and brush my teeth in the same room I took a shit in 6 hours earlier.

I shower and cover myself in soap while listening to songs from twenty years ago in some strange postmodern baptismal ritual.
Hosanna.

Clean.

I smell like Lavender and my mouth tastes of minty feces.

Clothes.

Tagless common white t-shirt.
Same brand boxer briefs.
What’s today’s temperature?
I’ll sort out the outfit after I read the weather forecast.
Hair products or hat?
My bald spot isn’t quarter sized anymore.

Curiosity.

Turn on the news for background noise as I turn me off.
I sit at my computer desk ready to face the day.
Let the masculine adventure begin!
Ugh…
What happened?
That’s way too many Twitter notifications.

News says everyone is mad and offended about everything everywhere again.

Sadists use the world’s most advanced technologies to curse at one another about Game of Thrones and God.
The Truth is what you tell yourself.

Just like everyday, different people repeat the same actions of different people who repeat their actions, all attempting to be the Prime Mover.

We are all American Superstar number one.
Full of spit and filth our bloody finger nails pierce the keyboards attached to the machines we now send our prayers.
Our kids pics.
Our taxes.
Our dick pics.

Where are my pills?
This social media post makes me want to shoot myself.
Damn.
The pill bottle is empty,
as is the gun.
Too bad.

Better use the app the doctor’s office told me to download to make an appointment.
I have to make sure it doesn’t conflict with the other three appointments I have this week.

My head hunched over staring at a glowing screen silently for periods of time that the most devout monks would be envious of, only I do it to laugh at memes.
So fulfilling.
This is my David in all his chaotic glory.
The king of my tribe has a new look these days.

I wonder why my neck always hurts?
Ah ha!
There is a pill for that and I still have a few!

Never forget that in reality we are all number one and just as in our dreams we are all the center of attention.

Now utilize some of that cognitive dissonance!
Some old god merely turned water to wine.
We can do so much better.
We can turn a man into a woman!
Let us now proclaim a man is a woman and not a man with a gory wound between his legs that he must stop from healing by painfully inserting an object into it.

I am Napoleon today.
Sure, I am a bit taller and heavier than him, but height is subjective.
If you claim or argue otherwise, you are a bigot and full of hatred for the delusional.
(Need a word for bigotry of this ilk. Ableism isn’t specific enough. How about Psychosisism?)

We live on a screen.
Our lives are like cheap motels.
Check in or out as ourselves or as someone else whenever we please.

Time to end the day the same way I began.
Wait, have to clear my browser history.
Now I can end the day with prayers to the machine.
Amen.

Shower.

Cleanse the day to begin the night.
Only this time it’s a satanic baptism.
Rethink and replay the day.
I abuse myself morphing my inner criticisms of how I handled all social interactions into tools to self mutilate my brain with.
I want to hang myself just like I did that preposition.

The water will not cleanse me of the worries of tomorrow regardless of how loud I sing over those 20 year old songs or how fierce I force the bar of soap onto my skin.

Brush.
This time I use a fresh toothbrush.
One day of a crap free teeth cleaning.

Take the small pill to sleep.
I don’t need water.
They are so tiny.
Just build up my saliva and swallow.

Pre-sleep thoughts.
I’m so great, everyone is so wrong about everything I am right about.

Eyes slam shut.
I can’t move.
My consciousness ravaged by The Sandman.
(Wasn’t he a wrestler and a comic book in the nineties?)

Dream.

Center of my own reality.
I talked to a dog but it was racist so I yelled shame at him.

I dream of empires.
Bishops and Dukes rule over people.
Protecting or oppressing.
Rising and falling.
The beauty of the art produced during The Byzantine Empire is of a superior standard when compared to today’s attempts.

Hold up.

These thoughts are attempting to eclipse my reality of relativity.
There is no standard.
This place is absurd. (Lower case A)
We utilize the arts for higher purposes such as egalitarianism and world peace!
They sculpted dead gods and naked men.
Unlike us, they had inferior knowledge about everything.

Kings.
That was a cute concept we humans had.
Almost all of them are gone or toothless.

Reality is racist
Reality is relative.

All these blinking colors are making me anxious I have tentacle and don’t want to get indigestion.
The greatest sentence ever written floats into Ozzy Osborne’s microphone.

The scene dissipates.
All is white.
This place is super racist.
I hear women laughing at cats choking on old cassette tapes.

There aren’t enough bullets on earth to kill all the zebra I want to cook.
Is it still cheating on my wife if my penis is some new appendage and the hole is Greenland?
The wind inside my mother’s womb isn’t as nourishing as a saint’s tears on my developing soul.

Why is (((milk)))?

A woman with hair as black as nothing calls me over in a strange tongue and then smiles.
The smile consumes her head.
She wants me to kill her now.
I can’t.
That’s against the law.
I notice I am dreaming.

Wake.

My eyelids give birth to a new day.
I hear a fly buzzing somewhere.
I have a bitter taste in my mouth again.
I figured the fresh toothbrush I used last night would’ve fixed that.

Broken by Ian Erickson. Written during an independent study in college and published in 2008. It is available for purchase on Amazon or Barnes and Noble in e-book and soft cover. You can also email me at ian@newmediacentral.net if you’d like a PDF.