Is Happiness Genetic?

We want what we want/
What is it?
One's not enough
neither is two
but three's too many -
and i'm without you
If only I could struggle
and thrive
if i knew
what it was -
where it is -
who are you?

We want what we want when we want it. But it won't make us happy/
Happiness/ that Genetic code
preprogrammed
already before our wrinkles form
from laughing in the sun -
turn to Momma & she says,
you got the good DNA
Son.
No frown wrinkles on this blank slate
but when you ask for happiness
it's already too late
you've already got the egg and sperm
to mate
and the future's all planned
they say.
it's not just the 60% chance that your eyes
will be brown like Daddy's
and your hair is blonde -
it's not just how tall or
what food you'll grow up liking
it's what when and where, baby
All planned - it's not your choice
what you want.
So if it is -
what next?

i don't really know why i take this pill
people outside my window play beer
pong in the heavy summer afternoon
it is such a tradgedy, such a burden
to be born rich.
"BORN RICH - THE TRUE LIFE DOCUMENTARY, INSIDE THE LIVES
OF THE CHILDREN OF MILLIONAIRES."
Dream, when the day is through
says that old song....
how do these marigolds grow,
i thought i knew the words all along.

Yesterday i pulled some flowers
out of the dumpster, fake
lilies and white roses
the bouquet sits
on my dresser.


-- ---- --- - --

Twenty-minute hate. A screenplay by, E.T. BEGOODE.

TEACHER ENTERS. She is a youngish woman, shoulderlength brown hair. Knee high gray skirt. She points to the blackboard.
"Now, children, we are going to review what we have learned in this unit on American patriotism."

Children begin reciting as she points to the board.
"Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas..."

Board reads:

I hate slow people
I hate smokers
I hate democrats
I hate college professors
I hate ladies with big hair
I hate southerners
I hate hippies
I hade pro-choicers.
I hate canadians.
I hate Wal-Mart.
I hate Mexicans.
I hate coca-cola.
I hate organic farms.
I hate clock watchers.
I hate society.
I hate soccer moms.
I hate foreign cars.
i hate wrestling.
I hate welfare mothers.
I hate starbucks
I hate poodles
I hate banana peppers
I hate waiting
I hate recycling
I hate subways
I hate gas-guzzlers
i hate Britney
I hate carbs...

to be continued...

are babies born with eyelashes?

what about those creases
those muscles made for frowning
do they grimace in the womb?
or wait until the touch of air
to try out their new faces?

it's a gray day, a sleepy day
and i am content to lie on my bed
in the soft cool of still-new sheets
and watch the cars pass by outside the window.
From upstairs the footsteps of a neighbor crease the ceiling
echos from the hallow staircase.

yesterday i ate the ice pops
my feet beating a track across the dusty linoelum
to the freezer.
one by one, i cut them open and let the ice run down my throat
the sharp plastic rigid against my tongue
as menacing as a razor blade.
Don't forget to keep the reciepts
i think, my eyelashes crushed against the mattress
don't forget to reset your password,
look up the bus schedule, cook some pasta.

maybe the bed will become a work table,
with watercolor thumbprints on the sheet
cadmium and aquarmarine--
outline a marigold and a bottle of wine.

or i'll retire to the egg-crate print of the couch
watching the ghostly figures
repeat as they blare "Moment of Truth"
and my head opened to the possibility
that my neck is no longer made for support.

the time is tired, perfect, now that the sun is gone
ransomed by gray vapors --
held somewhere in the atmosphere
and my feet look forward to the respite