Perhaps My Future Is . . .

lugging around the sluggishness of my birthplace,
I hide away in my dark study, reading
like a house god     maintaining reserved calm
and solitude
I write poems to delight the senses
having orgasms in my imagination
there’s nothing worth chasing after any more
ethics is a nusiance
the sky signifies the crows’ helplessness (a saying of Kafka’s)
the vicious die at fun fairs
the good die in the midst of trivia
I’ll die in one of two possible ways:  
either I’ll allow myself to disappear
or I’ll let fate arrange a future for me
the former entails a wholesale enlightenment
the latter tells me I need to go on battling

PERHAPS MY FUTURE IS . . .