It’s just me
It’s just me
by Karl Deiotte
Christ, can’t you
shut up your dog
for one fucking second?
Maybe they can’t
and that’s why they don’t.
I’m not even sure
there’s any “they†anymore.
Maybe there hasn’t
been a “they†for
a long fucking time.
It’s hard to tell.
The only signs of humanity
I see around
are the signs that
people make when
they’re just getting by.
Just getting by.
Think about how shitty that is.
Brush your teeth.
Mow the lawn.
Work.
Jesus Christ…you work.
And for what?
Your soul is still
a rotten old piece of furniture
stuck out on the curb
hoping someone else
can do something with it.
Show me something
that says you still
got a purpose.
One sign that there
is still something
human in you…
Something deep down
that makes you bolt
out onto the porch
and scream at the top
of your lungs
insults…curses…words,
anything to drown
out the sound of that fucking dog.
Thursday’s trash day.
See me waiting out on the curb
that morning as evidence
I refuse to give you
the satisfaction of certainty.
I don’t even have a dog.
That’s me. Barking
just to be something
more than human.
Faithful, obnoxious,
ever-present,
eating your shit
and regifting it
in secret on your lawn
I wait for Thursdays.
That’s the day I make my best art.
All over the neighborhood
I vandalize the garbage left out.
Using what you throw away
to make a statement
louder than my barking.
See, Thursday is trash day
and I can’t tell time
anything it doesn’t already know
they never take me with them
when the truck comes
they never try to collect my life
crush it in the compactor
I am left out
the trash collectors
need it organized for them
my life won’t fit in the can