I can look for a better way to say it,
or I can say it simply.
I’M BORED.
Bored with searching and finding and
losing and life,
bored with looking for a better way to say the things in my mind,
and bored with looking for hidden,
true beauty
among the dryness of my modern life and computer light.

Oh. And the construction and earthworks.
I tire of the dirt
and decay and decay and decay
that starts from birth and continues on
in life,
extending into some dumb kid’s decaying words.

yet, it –
the beauty – exists.
just not most of the time.
Most of time it’s this.
too tired to dream or think,
while my soul sits surrounded by the
midnight and shagginess and
sickness
So I write. Because whynot.
I write though I know there is nothing
to find.

Nothing here
but digital notes, random minds,
nebulous neurons and the strings that
they ride.
Strings that connect nothings to not-much-maybes,
roads ending in culdesacs.

Yet I still try to rhyme.
I guess the answer deals with time –
I have plenty of it
and I’m wasting it while fearfully waiting to die.
Additionally, we’re all looking for patterns in this poor patchwork
made by a madman or a monster or nothing but the
driest of science
(like it has been foretold in the dvds they pop in at school.
the ones where the twitching rationalists compare Bhor’s boorish experiment to vintage video games,
so the cool kids think they’re chill
[and so is science!].
Though, if that’s science, I no longer
can consider myself a man of
objectivity and earth.)

To continue with earlier assertions,
now recalled,
I’m also bored of repeated words.
Such as:
“Why
so bored with life, son?”
If the random world offers us each a
personal refrain,
this is the one I hear.
If I was meaner I’d say “neither of us know life, maybe.
And in a worst-case scenario,
my simple, easy dreams are no better
than yours,
you sicko.”

So, to repeat,
I AM BORED.
I long for the trees and the cold winter wind ripping into my flesh,
as I lie under fresh deer furs, still slicked with frozen fat,
and touch someone else’s skin,
feel the curve of their back,
swallow their rich scent and find no
boredom in that,
while hoping neither of us ever decays
or ages,
or at least never ages into something sunken and strange,
while wind whistles through the cave
and I try to find contentment in the stars
and their endless reign
over the night, until time collapses
and all that was birthed is returned to the oblivion or greatness whence it came.

but no, not that.
it’s not that way.
and best leave words like “whence” to Wordsworth and the dead-breed,
so elevated in their simplicity.
Don’t want to sound like a parody of
your average dewy-eyed
boy-“poet” with his dreams and dramas.

But I truly do want that wild wind
to blow in my heart and on my skin.
I want emotion,
because I’m bored with misplaced cynicism,
and bored of being civilized.

Such senseless, weak words
I write.
A moan would contain more heavenly depth.
I’ll turn to the stars and exhale all my breath
in a wordless song and then breathe in
the night deeply.
I’ll never be of bored of fresh air,
only breathing
and its maddening motion and steadiness
when stuck in this, comfortable, though shabbily furnished room,
with the rabbit-eared tv and chipped
wardrobe,
in the throne that I was tied into by no one but everyone.
Oh, boring world!