Unshared experience is lost to the world.
During struggles with oblivion
might fatalism offer solace
for a botched existence
by transcending the indignity
Infinity, god, and zero
flash across my mind
as if not quite understood
like signs in search of full meaning…
A sudden racket, from outside, interrupted these thoughts.
Noise invades private space
against our will.
Becoming harder to ignore
I reached for distraction
via a bedside newspaper…
that psychopaths share great success
at producing children.
(Possibly a better evolutionary strategy
than writing poems?
Though not the best advertisement
for female mate-choice.)
Next, an article on cryogenics.
Thus some rich Americans aspired to avoid
life’s traditional twin certainties:
death and taxes.
(“Truths are not self-evident,” I mumbled,
“Men being made unequal.
Rights find wishes, recast as law.”)
A headline mentions “Community care”.
Yet cities lack community,
and nobody cares.
“Neglect in the community”
sounded less appealing?)
A reader’s letter, praising divine creation,
bemoaned devilish influences.
(Why god created Satan
A book review questioned fiction
spanning barriers of class and gender.
should be a safer option;
given approved opinions?)
A survey revealed
celibates suffer twice the mortality rate
of men getting regular, weekly, sex.
“My situation is one long touch deprivation,”
I mutter, gloomily.
Having gone without such pleasure for years
perhaps there could be more
than mere hyperbole
to an admission that,
“I’m dying for it.”