on productivity

the single most
valuable
realization
that can be made in
a lifetime is
that none of us,
innately, are
any good at
anything

that is,
until we finally
reconcile
with that notion
for whatever
reason

and that reconciliation
fills us
brimming
with such grief and
self-loathing
that the mirror
shatters veiny

and the dogs
and cats
of this night and the last
scatter

and such self-obsession
and loathing
takes over everything
else, creating its own simple
warp
of our already distorted
reality.

but this new existence (of
sorts) ousts the mirage
of Self,
almost entirely—
making it difficult to
care much
about anything
at all

except maybe
that which would return your
Self [rejuvenated]…

…like Art
or something diluted down to It,

a fiddling job,
to which
every miserable person
can escape

the sanity-bringer.

that is my art.

but we are all still nothings,
and will continue
to be nothing
until the arrival of
that notion.

loathing
ourselves or the world or both
is what will
keep us locked up and tweaking
our respective crafts

provided we are not out
there solely for those
fifteen minutes,
we will bust our asses
and be artsy
and stick our tongues out
at the elderly

and prove to ourselves that
as a race
we can exude more than
piss, cum, vomit, and
shit.