The Arrival

For years on end I have been sitting here
Impatiently awaiting potency; some explosive revelatory surge
That will carry me away and permit no looking back.
But this moment of deliverance has not arrived,
And I have done nothing to hasten it.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
Perhaps I wasn’t meant to do anything:
In which case, I have succeeded admirably.

Feelings

I may as well face the fact
That I am no longer capable
Of doing what I once believed
I was capable of doing.
Not that I had any reason to assume
That I was capable of it.
It was just a feeling that I had.
And now I have a different feeling.

Nothing

When I ask someone what they are doing and they tell me
They are doing nothing, they are, in fact, usually doing
Something. Whereas if someone asks me what I am doing
And I tell them I am doing nothing, I am, in fact, actually doing
Nothing. Few people, outside jails or hospitals, have spent more
Time lying on a bed looking at a wall. Or on a sofa, or in a chair,
Or on a floor. Or looking at a floor, or a ceiling.
Or with eyes shut.

Down Time

I sometimes marvel at how little I do
And at how it is necessary for me to do very little.
I could put a flame under myself, perhaps a flicker.
But I have this fire in me to do nothing. And it is important
That a certain amount of time should be reserved
For doing nothing. Both before, during and after
Doing something. And I could be incinerated
By a flicker.

Dust Falls Regardless

I once took solace in comparing myself to other
Malingerers. Until it became clear that my lack
Of progress eclipsed even the most laggardly
Among them, and that there remained no sign,
At this precarious hour, of the most rudimentary
Beginning. At which point it also became clear
That I cannot compare myself to anyone
Who has done anything.

That Time of Day

A destructive overawareness of time
Knives through the hot empty spaces
Of an afternoon. A sense of urgency vaporizing
Into torpor. Even the traffic sounds tired.
Do something, I tell myself.
What? The same thing I’ve been doing
Every day for years on end
With varying degrees of failure.

Another Day

Take some initiative…
Do something with your life:
I get up from the sofa,
Walk across to the table
And write these words
Down on a piece of paper.
Then I return to the sofa and
Fall asleep.

Life Without Work

To do nothing
In this day and age,
When so much pointless work
Is being produced,
Could almost be considered an achievement.
It all compares most unfavorably
With my own imaginary
Body of work.

The Measure of a Man

A long time ago I made a decision
To become a failure. It wasn’t
As easy as I thought: browsing through life
From one distraction to the next, while waiting
For the last lost moment to become unseizable.
As if there were some fundamental honesty
To not striving: There wasn’t. –
I suspected it all along.