by Luke Otley

I don’t care about the news;
shootings pile up like two, three, four nights’ worth
of crack rock hard rice and sauce on plate
and I don’t care, I don’t.

It’s not a good feeling, nor one
that’s big or clever, but christ
there’s so much dust and dirt and grime
coming at me like a persistent pounding tide
it’s hard to notice
who or what is persecuted,
why or how we’re butchered;
the recycling must go out,
where are the forks?
where’s the last bowl?

Rizlas everywhere, always, every morning,
the clothes are washed, left wet and washed again,
sirens buzz down the street
bricklayers joke and carry planks of wood;
there’s no life in my eyes
as I try to remember if I’ve cancelled
my subscriptions,
snake oil multivitamin
tablet bitter, bitter
on my tongue.