Damn. I’m out of sugar.

I’m out of cream, too.

I’m out of milk, toothpaste,

ketchup, toilet paper, and batteries.

I’m out of strength.

The day became too heavy

And I just can’t lift it any more.

Leave the night to someone else.

I’m out of compassion.

I’ve looked around in all the

Cupboards of my heart, but I can’t

Find an Indian tear.

And just when I think

I can’t get any emptier,

I find a Fuck

And get rid of that too.

I’m out of my mind.

Out of reasons, explanations,

Excuses, and justifications.

I gave them all away.

I’m out of names.

No identity left. No attachments,

No yearning for what might become

Or what might have been.

The Buddha would be proud.

But I got rid of him too:

Threw him out with the old socks

And now I drink my coffee black.

Next Chapter: Punctuate Me.