Multiconstruct

my birthday is in three weeks

and i don’t have any friends

i am far from all that is familiar

except for that vague sense of malaise

that can kill poetry, hope, joy

not in a tragic shot of misery

but a rote cloud of routine half-reality

half experienced, quickly lost in

the next empty exchange.

real experience pulled forth only

at apparent enormous cost

most risk not taken

unless backed into a corner

called to account

even if you are looking away

an insular gaze to chill

in the ubiquitous hustle

cost without even the satisfaction

that you really helped