music that represents the downfall of civilization

sometimes i am reminded of 4'33",
the 3 movement composition by John Cage
where musicians are instructed
to refrain from playing their instruments
during the entire duration of
each movement,
creating nothing but silence.

and then other times
i am reminded of the hip-hop artist Sisqo
and his famous, chart-topping hit from 1999,
"Thong Song" where he reminds us all that,
"She had dumps like a truck truck truck.
Thighs like what what what.
Baby move your butt butt butt
Let me see that thong."

and when i listen
to the these two pieces in succession of each other,
in the order as they are written here,
i can't help but pine for the silence of the former
throughout the noise of the latter
which eventually directs me to another song,
the 1933 piece "Gloomy Sunday" by Rezso Seress
also known as
"The Hungarian Suicide Song"
which i am forced to play on a loop
for as long as it takes
to eradicate the The Thong Song
from active memory.






There is a thick well
filled to the brim
with all the words I
when conversation
is required of me. 



and once again, the hills go back to brown
and the dry brush piles up in the corner

this place is arid most of the time
and any vagaries in the weather
feel like a broken promise
or a delusion
like a man with $3 left to his name
ordering a brandy and a steak dinner in a brasserie.
with every bite he is reminded of where he is.
he can only close his eyes and savor this hour,
his final dinner of intemperance before the bill
unseats his fantasy. 

i am like the grass on these hills.

i do not belong

in this desert.




someday i'll be gone and some poor soul
will have to deal with all the crap i leave behind
and they'll have to go through a ton of boxes and drawers
and they'll hold up some dingus and say, "what the hell is this thing?"
or "how's this even work?" or "does it even turn on anymore?"
and then some of my stuff will go to Goodwill
and some will be sold
and some stuff will get tossed
and my email acccount will just sit there
and this blog will disappear
and all the letters in all the words i've ever written
will be recycled and used somewhere else like
in contracts or on checks or in some strange lady's terrible
romance letter to a French jet ski model who 
doesn't care about anyone but himself and just
breaks hearts left and right.
this whole death and affairs thing will be a damned shame
and a real hassle for everyone involved
because everything i've ever said, done, been, made or ruined,
will have to be recycled, destroyed, buried, dispersed and sold
and it is precisely for that reason that i'm just going to sit down
right here on this spot
and drink this here delicious root beer
and not give a shit about how many calories are in it
or what happens next when it's done
or where i'm supposed to go later or
what i'm supposed to do today.


hung by the bed

though it is as familiar as my autumn coat,
like a sandbag on a weakened hook,
pulling screws out of the wall,
hung by the bed or by the door
ignored but always breathing there
in the coldest corner of the room
like a burned out bulb I never change
dark and present with every switch
always waiting for a break
i know it better than my hands
or the family photos on my phone
deceptive comfort lying there
forced to cede another day
and take the space where clothes should lay
if misery is not a coat
nor a scarf or winter sleigh
why do I hang it on this rack
and leave it there to stay?