For Joey

a life of passive desire, of wanting,
but not going-out-and-getting,
of knowing, but not caring,
or
  worse-of-all
                caring, but not doing,
                       
                is

a night spent lying awake,
listening to that damn dog,
complaining-to-myself,
          tossing-and-turning
but not getting up and throwing
            a
                  fucking
                              rock at it.

can i-make-myself-more-clear?

you lazy, apathetic, asshole
the "most excellent author"
too lazy to pick up a god-damn pen,
that brilliant rhetoric,
that alluring alliteration,
might just as well be
      Dr.
            Fucking
                          Seuss.