“A Function of Comparison”

Authenticity burning at the stake

Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash

aching eyes, throbbing hands:
a function of comparison.
no experiences

a divine segregation — don’t worry,
your time is coming — that kills joy,
or at least makes it heavy. no dollars

tips and tricks, another plunge into
sweet-smelling vomit, whoosh, but
I’ll need another. no partners

oh, to strange loneliness, that
communion with assorted demons,
the cavernous well from which you

don’t deserve to escape. there’s no
algebraic clarity (subtract the constant,
divide the coefficient, and voila! x!) to this

life warped by the forcefulness of
others’ accomplishments, the midnight
pondering of purpose that banishes

sleep and summons the tyrants
of memory. there’s only some
watery urgency, some hazy need

and the one-foot-after-another
trudge toward nowhere,
the great lie.