escape

something covers me
like a blanket to the eyes,
but it's not sunglasses
and it's not a vis
or.
maybe i'm just thinking
too much again,
when i should just vent this
abstraction with a pen.

venting all this steam
would take an engine,
and it would take a lifetime,
so i would want a pension.
but money is worthless,
it's just paper and metal.
i'd like a log cabin
to live and settle
down.

i'd sit, read, write, smoke,
and drink homemade beer.
i'd live with some animals
and without fear.

right now i live
constantly afraid
that all around me is an illusion
and we haven't come far from caves.

the newspaper is something
to get interested in,
or bowling balls
and knocking down the pins.

the end:

old people flirt
in the library.
i'm writing this down
in my diary.