Dan Majka is famous! reads the e-mail subject line-
nearly strain my index finger with a fidget to decline it
and delete it- drowning in his well-wishes-
could spend hours on the phone
finding ways I might compete with-
but I’m rusting in a coffee shop which may as well be home-
just biding time ‘til better ways appear for investment in my life-
generational angst transfigured ‘til it becomes my own.
Dan Majka is famous!; I’m just fulfilling my role-
simply falling apart here, fingers wet from pickle bowl
ears burning from so much baby-talky, Bible-talk treacle-
served up with sociological, heebie-jeebie rock-n-roll.
Dan Majka is famous! and I’m losing control-
cheap coffee shop napkin tears like my resolve.
dedication spent- greasy fingers make holes
tears in descent, I fondle untouched sandwich crusts-
overload for the stomach and for the soul.
Dan Majka is famous; my life is a sitting duck sinecure
I just don’t see the point of debate-
if Dan is famous- what does that make me?
An eavesdropper on strangers’ tales of aftershocks and despair-
proving themselves they’re ok with “a quick prayer, then outta there.”
Could I be ok too- if I dared to believe
in fairy tales and pop-psychology and comfort food?
Dan Majka is famous! Oh, like I really care…
* * *
Written stream-of-conscious listening to several different conversations around me and reading an email.