it's no trouble

i spend most of my days
wondering if i should be more
verbose,
murder lines upon lines of innocent adjectives
and verbs that do nothing
but sell themselves at a street corner somewhere
and if it ought to be raining all the time
because i'm beat
and bruised from fighting
all the gravity, all the concrete, the only
sure evidence of actually living,
even if only on occasion.

the bandages
won't do anything if i can't remember
whether i should laugh or cry,
not a single thing when
i can't remember if i should
remind myself of the way
i'm dying or living
or trying to expect nothing
and wish for nothing
and if there is anything at all to be.

but if
all else should fail,
shouldn't i still
be something,

shouldn't i still be dreaming?

shouldn't i imagine
someone
thinking up thousands of emotions to write
cheques on my name with
until i'm really, really poor enough
to starve for days
like a proper homeless gypsy bum for once,

or a life
that's so full of life
that it burns
the ever-living shit out of my
ugly weak freak body and leaves me weeping of joy
at times when i collapse on some bed somewhere,
somewhere where there's someone,
alive at last
and the air, it smells of the endless arousal
of talking until throats become pillars of sand
and the sun rises over the dunes
those swollen red eyes stinging?

and
even then
i still don't know
if i should be all by myself
until i'm reminded of what is right
and good for me and what i want,
should i be the
broken record player
singing all the broken old tunes
or should i just try and try to be happy
with whatever i could ever be and keep
all of this
wrapped?