Grind-House/Grind-Job/Grind-Life (Or I Didn't Even Enjoy Myself Along The Way)

I am a bandit fleeing across the desert,
The weighted packs of gold bullion discarded
one by one.
Lost to the hot, searing sun.
By the time I get to Mexico City,
my well-laid plans & resultant bounty
are lost to the geckos & sand.

I am the sleepy-eyed driver on the highway,
The wind lashing the windshield with gallons of rain.
And I,
stuck behind a SYSCO trailer-truck,
only seeing that
an immediate obstruction...a logo & channeled spray.

I am a minimum payment,
always accumulating late and overdue fees.

I am your old high school room,
the posters curled at the edges
the walls streaked in snot & crayon...
the air crisp with semen.
The dust settling over scripts & index cards
& out-dated contact lists.

I am the worst sweet wine hang-over in your life,
on a Tuesday morning, an hour into the workday...
and the whole week stretched before you
like an open, gabbering jaw.
All the coffee in the styrofoam cups
All the paste-tasting pills
All the internet A.D.D.
Won't save you from the constant W-O-R-K.

I am an unreturned phone call,
a deleted friend
a despondant co-worker
a lackluster family
a nobody entreating you from your past.

I am the septuagenerian
constantly losing his keys or his bankbook
or the obituary cut from the paper.
I am programmed response,
defeatist programming...
telling you "no" and "never" and "get real".
I am in the basement swearing
I am delaying at the front door
I am complaining about the neighbors.

I am your last accounts.