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.
Humdrum, heavy
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.



That resonates wonderfully and contains sentiment that is very ancient with observations of the new.
Oh, my gosh this is good! So many lovely bits I want to restack so others can read this! And "procrasturbator" is my new favorite word!