Everest

Something only a bit different done in a life 

is something giant compared to the day-to-day that was. 

Oh, the stress of doing a thing that’s—kinda new.  

Eh, ok: new in any way. Here: 

new workplace, but, come on: same ol job. Face it, 

you haven’t changed—  

you’re the same damn you 

you’ve always been. Maybe a couple more bucks an hour, you.

Still stressed out, though. But it’s funny how  

I could put on a tighter pair of pants  

and feel a bit more put together— 

swag sway 

infection in my hips. Come on, 

I’m still the same—just  

make believing something else—just 

failing (doing it anyway) to trick my brain.  

Hey, something new is being done 

I’m a better person and all these great new habits 

they’ll stick around for forever—I’m doing something for myself! 

Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah—man: 

I’ve seen some real change, though, but  

bending only as a heated rock down deep in the core. 

It’s never been because of a job, or a girlfriend, or a breakup, 

or a death, or almost dying on a bike—but just, you know. 

Whenever I get a moment—some pause—like: 

The dream you  

gets some time to  

examine you. 

Tisk, tisk, tisk. 

God, and if I get at least half a year with time like that— 

start to think I’m unhappy, and then I am unhappy— 

there ain’t nothing happy. Bitter blood makes me sick! 

I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to sit on a couch 

searching, searching, searching through the channels 

for a mere bite at bliss—some addictive, predictable, stimulation shit. Fuck. 

There it is: submitting to 

a new job or house or pretend life as a better me when my soul 

ain’t been touched. Okay— 

how far down  

do you gotta be  

until the Earth crushes you 

and grinds you—superheats you? 

Do you get to be a mountain?