Despair is a hobo in the shoeshine chair.
Despair is a bully at the county fair.
Despair is a bride hairspraying her hair.
Aromatherapy is gaseous despair, and ridiculous,
revealing what suckers we are for suggestion,
which is depressing. And unfair.
On my trip to next to nowhere,
tucked in the front seatback beside the barf bag
and the emergency cartoons, I found despair
in the in-flight magazine.
Despair at the beach.
Despair in mid-air.
The Catholics call it a sin because it's so easy.
Like most sins it seems unavoidable. For example,
I have at times wanted to kill my father, marry
my mother, kill my mother, marry
my brother, shack up with my neighbor's wife,
steal his car, burn down his house,
build a new Jesus, etc.
Is it a sin to be weary, to give up,
to like food but hate it at the same time,
to roll your eyes at trying? I think not.
I've used up my face and worn out my stare.
I do my best laughing alone.
For this I thank Arthur Schopenhauer,
whose grave, through fate, is a stone's throw
from my home. He wrote the book on despair
and when asked where he wished to be buried,
replied, "They will find me.
Bury me anywhere."
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