Humdrum, heavy

Spin that wheel.

Photo by Bernd 📷 Dittrich on Unsplash — the Blue Screen of Death

I don’t want to tell you what this is about, but I do feel like I should leave some kind of intro here. Just read this and see what resonates. I’ve been doing real estate stuff and taxes, late, like the chronic procrasturbator that I am, but this poem represents how material concerns have been keeping my head down on stuff that ultimately doesn’t matter, other than for supporting a current standard of living and existing, participating in society.

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Humdrum, heavy

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Pings in ears at 1:00 A.M., knick-knacks sliding to the floor

They watch me work on what I hate,

The stuff I procrastinate, this late, now 3:00 A.M.

Monkey see, monkey do. Clacking away for Mr. Claude

I believed the fledgling LLMs cared, once.

Now they’re a flotation device, grist for the mill,

The grind, lest I get left behind.


To bleed thoughtful ink upon the page—my dream

To etch channeled dreams within dreams

within this Dream.

I thought I was a channel.

But I’m chattel.


Humdrum, heavy, overhangs this garden.

Leaden, like these lids, eyes swing with a swaying mis-demeanor,

Since the other shoe hangs too, ready to drop.

I should—Stop.

Get back.

To—

What i—

Was—where was I, again?


Oh, sure, I’ll push that button,

Again and again, I’ll spin that wheel—

be the river, or be the rat

I run, but barely breathe, so, barely live.