Apr 26, 2011

Supposed To

Written by Jim Tolan

Read by Johnathon Williams

Better days are the ones misspent as this
where instead of what I’m supposed to do
I write these words or better and implore
you in a hush to fuck me like I’ve just
come home from a war to which tomorrow
I return. Worse and more frequent are the days
of endless solitaire and magazines
instead of the work that has to be but
not yet, just not yet, and I, like you, know
it would be better to be done with it
and have what time remains for what I love,
for the words and respites from war, perfect
al fresco cappuccinos between, brimming
with froth. The sun and strolls unencumbered,
the garden we tend still to promise ourselves,
the cooking of what pleases, the laughter
among friends at the little hells we raise,
but—there is always this but like regret
never worthy of a story, the but of
the lists piled insidious before us,
capable of worming like the spiritual
slither of an opiate malaise—those
powers with which we are left, good only
for staring at computer screens, scrolling
our way across their ether to the next
window this weariness demands. This
is why we drink and snort and smoke, gamble
and cavort our ways into the stupors
that possess and transform us into those
we do not know, the interminable dread
of dying into what we are supposed
to do, of convincing ourselves that what
we are ineffectually committed to
supposing makes us worthy of our lives.