about weltschmerz

Someday, Some month, 2018 — 2019


7 : 0 7 AM

You roll over,
check the news
from your bulletproof bed
and then convince yourself that:

“there are so many of them marching out
in the streets— most can’t end up dead.”

You squeeze yourself onto the subway
already somehow starting to sweat,
while you will some brave
soon-to-be martyrs
to not become
just yet.

8 : 2 5 AM

slow tourists
mean you won’t be
at work on-time, so you
shoot gaps like running backs,
while one thought runs through your mind:

I guess at least enough of them lived long enough

to raise a generation carrying freedom
and fight as recessive genes.
You decide you like this
new office coffee

9 : 3 6 AM

While it’s
espresso pods
help you shake off the
morning weed, you learn just
how much someone’s eye can bleed

— at least when it’s shot with a bean bag

at close range, by police who are
effectively brainwashed and
sufficiently trained.
You wonder if
it leaves
a stain.


1 1 : 1 1 AM

You lie,
and run off
to the closest empty
conference room to answer
a call. It’s your love, half a hard world away.

You grit your teeth when the call drops before
you can really hear what she really has to say.

Walking back you decide you think you
would stay. Fight back in a black
face mask. Get your head
cracked. But theres no
time with these
all day.

6 : 4 6 PM

But life’s okay,
because you’re high
before you go back underground.
Eyes full of smoke. Ears full of sound.

You can’t hear the screaming in the street

anymore. Can’t feel the ground shake
as they chant in the airport. Can’t
see the girls face as they rip
off her pants and spray
her with mace.

6 : 5 4 PM

it’s a fucking disgrace —
how long these trains delay.
You turn the music up louder now
and close the article you never got to:

The one with the title “here’s what you can do.”

You’re thirsty from the job you sort of
hate, so you hit the bar on the way
home. The one where other
outraged hearts rage
out hurt parts, and
replace them
with booze.

1 0 : 1 0 PM

“They’ll lose” You
slur with confidence.
“And they’ll die.” You sigh as
if being a pessimist protects anyone
in any way. Another death another day.

Another drink, another way for you to play

pretend. As if someone’s life didn’t end.
As if marching or social media
mattered. Somewhere, they
are bruised and battered
Just like your liver.
The next day
you shiver.

7 : 0 7 AM (again)

You roll over,
check the news from
your blood-free bed. Then
take a little longer to leave it.

Copyright 2019 by Paul Curry