Gratitude Is a Hard Sell

That I had the time and resources to spend several weeks looking for something as trivial and solipsistic as a poster and video store display for the movie Zombiethon while most of the people on this planet suffer through a day isn't lost on me. I don't entirely understand it. I may have earned it is some previous existence, or it may be a test of my decency in this one. 

This morning and afternoon I am experiencing the Universe largely as something warm and embracing, even though I am exhausted and feverish. I have the luxury of poetry. And surfeit. More than I need of almost everything. 

I don't feel like I've really done very much to deserve that. But I also don't feel that I've done that much to not deserve it. All I can do is enjoy it.  

I have written one poem already today. A poem for a friend who is dying. I am dying, also, but slower than him. And that is the text of the poem. What does one say to Death? What will I say?

I'm not sure. I'm rambling and careening through this day, trying not to allow my lack of focus to cause an accident. Maybe I'm moving too slow to fancy that I have the momentum to even have an impact on anything. Maybe I'm feverish and not in my mind. 

I'm one of those people who has been given everything I asked for in a lifetime. More than I expected.  I never know what to attribute that to. I like what I have and what I am. I feel like a special creation. The hubris of it. To feel special on a planet like this. I want to get to the kernel of some of these feelings this day with a few poems but I feel I might not. Which is typical of me. I suppose you don't feel the same compulsion to write when you're satisfied and favored that you feel when you're wanting. Gratitude is a hard sell. 

I am a genius at self-absorbtion. Even knowing that I vaguely distress those who are unlike me gives me joy. Knowing I have slowly and surely crossed off a master list all my hopes and aspirations is an antidote to virtually any setback. 

Me, me, me, me, me, me.

I recently decided I'm not going to do much more. I had a spell where i wanted to load myself with as much work as possible to see what I was capable of, but as I suspected it went nowhere. Made me tired. Another summer is coming up. I'm going to write poetry. That's about it. If this city or this country or this world falls around me while I do so I'll ramble on, knowing nothing I was going to say or do was going to change any of it.


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