Can you tell me
why I must tell you
so many times
not to run with sissors
like a creature half-blind
just pulled from the slab
and given new life
by the sins of science?

Can you tell me
the great attraction
pain and suffering
offer--floor hopper--so
you can't avoid the rain
of disrespect that sluces
those who yowl complaint
like any stray cat?

Can you tell me
just why I bother
taking you in and
feeding you dinner
you can't even taste
cause you're tongue is
a mummified pickle
flailing the air with remorse?

Can you tell me why
you'll give your soul
to any passing guy
as long as he treats you
like a two-bit whore,
taking your money and pride
and leaving you to warm
the gutter of your devolution?

Can you tell me why
I write these words
vainly hoping for an ending
somewhat different from
all the endings that
have followed you like
the promise of an
empty, yawning grave?

Can you tell me why
I care about you
when you won't care
about yourself?

Me neither.

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Unfortunately--this is the gist of a conversation I had with a friend last night.
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