This is the truth: My life is on hold.
Useless to find employment, when my stay here’s merely months.
Useless to find enjoyment, when my income pays for naught.
Empty I live, sweaty in the summer’s stifling daze
Empty I live, aching for a wife, oceans away.
Looking forward to reunion when my visa pushes through.
Yet dreading a life of endless work in a country that never rests.
My inertia has me chained to the bed I’ve lain in for years.
Sweat-stained sheets yellowed with my acrid laziness.
In short-term thoughts: i have nothing to look forward to.
A gig a week, projects, keep me busy enough to ignore death.
Career is just a word now. Empty like my brain.
Job is a disdain now. A conjecture, a game.
I fiddle with the glasses, thinking drunken, merry ways.
I drown my blank, dull sorrow in alcoholic blaze.
But resurfacing sometime later, things are ever as they seem.
My life on hold. My dreams on hold.
Wait. Do I even have my dreams?
I seem to have misplaced them, in this purgatory-place.
Where everyone’s in transit save for me– I’m ticketless.
apri 4 friday, 2003