Things Are Already Spoiled

Things are already spoiled that way, Just as you say, and there’s no way to avoid it. I can look back at it and forward at it, But there’s no cheer to be found in it And it’s all the same in the same stoic frame On that cold familiar freezer shelf, In this old unpainted kitchen, on the same dead street. It’s the same sad sell. I’m famous for it. I suppose it would be fair If you’ve got to where You don’t want to know much more about it When most of these poems babble alike, Quite depressive and insane And obsessed about death or inactivity Or how words sound or work As they click around, about, and In the track or pockets of the roulette wheel— So you’re right in your remarks, But what else would I know? The carousel you sent failed to arrive. I just got a piece of mail about it from Amazon, Saying that the horses didn’t survive And the poles were bent And all the brass rings were tarnished. rcs. Current draft: 3/4/2010 Created on 2/25/2010 2:11 PM