Site icon Making sense of everything

August

This to me is a beautiful picture of August. I used it even though the narrator in my poem hates his life and August, having lost his privilege.

I no longer like the August rain,

gone are the days when

I sat in my apartment

and made the monsoon

my muse, going on and on

about silvery streaks like

the tears of benevolent providence

coating the cobblestones,

and flooding us with eunoia,

making us pursue our passions

with meraki, the song of the stars

and wind’s whopping cadence

bringing out our inner pluviophile.

That utopianism died when I

squandered my inheritance,

turning the whispery wisteria

with its purple transcendence into

ashes. I flip burgers at McDonald’s now

in a country with no dignity of

labour. I wear a red shirt, black

pant and a silly red hat and

stand across Bozo or Ronald

McDonald or Binky or whatever

they call him, with his gaudy orange

robes and hair that makes him

look like a twisted, serial killer,

a sick smile plastered on his face.

I listen to the tragic stories of my

co-workers like the time some

guy spent 5000 rupees on burgers

which is our monthly salary.

I was that guy once. I cringe at

that thought. I got fat on chorizo

and bacon, pursued knowledge like

a prophet heeding the Lord’s call,

read books about anti-natalism,

nihilism, divine darkness as expounded on

by Meister Eckhart or some other

theologian or philosopher,

half-agreeing with what they said,

wearing ideas on my sleeve like a hypocrite,

devoured John Updike with his lyrical

take on the amorous, quotidian

realities of protestant America,

listened to post-rock, jazz, trip-hop,

indie pop, rock and psychedelia,

offering my two cents on every

bloody thing with sesquipedalian

loquaciousness like a bratty, snooty,

verbose know-all, and what was the

point of it all? I ended up becoming

the ‘purple poseur’ or the ‘lit-bro,’

a caricature of a learned man who

spoke of Thomas Hardy’s poetic

maturity when asked about the

August weather. An intellectual troll,

a knowledgeable bastard with no

acumen, a fool with his hot takes

and histrionics. Look at me! I still

can’t stop! I couldn’t get a white

collar job because I had no work

experience, and did nothing except

smoke cigarettes and read for

eleven years. So here I am, looking at

Jinky, Linky, Winky, IT or whatever

they call him, hoping and praying that

no one I know from college

comes up to the counter,

making me suppress my shame,

plaster a grin on my face

and say, “Welcome to McDonald’s.

What can I get you, sir?”

Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

For dVerse

Exit mobile version