Have you ever been sick of living,
despite knowing
other people
younger than you
with injustice and innocence
on their side
and longing to watch the tide,
other simple things,
though they do not detract
from your wanting
and your needing
to fall down the stairs,
permanently, fatally?

Have you wondered
about your selfishness?
Have you asked yourself,
your glorious self,
"I have no reason?"

Has it not mattered?
Have you om and om and om'd?
Have you counted your breaths?
Have you taken your medication?

 On a Kansas plain,
 I ride into the rain.
 I hope to slip and fall.
 Still, I'm trying to survive.  Why?
 I'm a liar.

"How ridiculous you are,"
I tell myself.
On the other hand,
I am just as terminal.

 Shall we meet in the terminal,
 in the silver automated
 lines of safety?

 I mean, our safety;
 we are protected by consumer laws,
 are we not?  And if we cannot protect
 one another, the cause must be personal responsibility.

So they say they, and we repeat
the words like robots
most of the time, but sometimes not.
Then we ask, "Are you kidding me
"with personal responsibility?
"Do you think I think,
"that I believe
"for two seconds
"such a philosophy,
"and/or theology of
"a crucifix-tattooed
"sociopath?"

How I long to see you
in the gun sights of a sniper.
Then we will repeat
and then we will repeat
and then we will repeat
image after image
of your slaying,
in the way
repetition led to this:
remember how it led to this?

But back to love.
I cannot entirely surrender it,
be it biological or sacred.
I say
amen, amen,
om and om:

 Shall we meet in the terminal,
 in the silver automated
 lines of safety?

I think we shall.
I think we must,
with airplanes flying overhead,
soon to be dust.
Can you give that much?
Can any of us?
Can we give that much?

We'd better; we must.