I light this cigarette and think:

I didn’t want to go to work today,

and tomorrow it will be the same.

I light the next one and think:

I never wanted to be born,

but now I’m stuck.

and on the next:

I never asked Christ to die for my sins,

he could have become a painter

or learned to play the piano instead

as far as my soul is concerned.

what’s next?

don’t know. don’t care.

we waste this life at work

as we pray for the second life.

but nothing is sacred,

nothing is precious.

not the way we waste it all.

not the way we hone our cruelty

for all our time,

for all of time.

this is a disease—

the sickness unto death—

and all the while we’re hoping

to find heaven waiting there for us.

all the while we’re waiting

to be freed

without any concept whatsoever

as to what freedom even is.

never really wanting any of it,

never asking for it,

yet here it is and

here

we are,

all of us in the same boat,

together,

the same sinking ship, the doomed vessel,

and there’s nowhere

to piss

but on the

floor.