Trying to Identify the Thing without Writing a Poem which Would Just Be Stupid

There is a thing called Sunday evening.
There are many evenings
and in some of these evenings you attach
the day of the week.
There is a dark vibrating medallion of beef in my chest.
It flexes. It flexes more. It's flexy!
Beneath it's low girly voice is a hum.
O Jesus, you say, you get ready.
You are tired of jokes
and of expanding important ideas.
This is all Jello.
All Jello
It is all Jello, even New York City and
headphones on headphones
on people at the Y.
Even active women in sensible shoes.
The inevitable has a good
name for itself.
Despite medication, the symptoms
persist.

And in the early moments of the new moment,
forced to consider poetry, handbags,
new illusions, selfish obstacles, you become
stuck on the pin
of pierced life, wiggling impaled, like, uh,
blah blah blahfrock, whatnot, pick
your history, whatever. Like, very
much so whatever.
In this shrunken head, I am
considering using a metaphor.
In the boogie bag sack, I'm
carrying a sort of useful handbook.

Every day of my life I have waited
to say this and and am now
a bit disappointed.
I thought of something
called conclusion, or
at least, 70% off.
Instead, I am sitting on the bench.
The bench is a regular bench in the mall.
It doesn't matter if it's true.

The top button of my shirt is
called envy.
My throat isn't worth spending the energy necessary
to describe it.
Reading the newspaper doesn't make me a rat, but
it does sorta cause me to sniff.

There is always the first day of school.
Max talks about kindergarten
which he'll go to
next to he'll go.
Anticipation is the only candle
I burn when I burn shit.
Even using words like burn, is just
fucking stupid.
I love my family, but I resent the time I spent
in church as a kid.
That whole time, in a dream world,
the real world was planting me
in front of this computer. All this
about vegetation
alone makes me puke.
But I don't puke.
I just tell you I do and
then tell you I don't.