Without a Hangover

Staring out the window at what the realtor called a 'view,'
I shudder to wonder at what matters less.
Is it me or the archane systems I represent at every turn.

Flipping through the pages of what my uncle calls the 'news,'
I listen for anything worth calling noise.
Is it me or the silence that makes me sick?

Sifting through the seeds & stems of what my buddy calls 'good times,'
I try to feel anything sharp enough.
Is it me or the grass that makes t.v. bearable?

Picking through the scattered remains of what Mom called 'leftovers,'
I try to imagine what sense I'll still feel.
Is it me or the mustard that stains everything?

Sitting on that wooden perch your father called 'an example,'
you try to pretend I'm what you worked for.
You laugh because there's nothing to say.*

*Slipknot, "No Life" Slipknot (1999)