the predictable title was too easy

guilt factors high, here.
like the mountains
like the depths of the harbour
which stirs blue wisps into the kelp
and yelps to be penetrated by me,
even just by toes.

the consumerism that rampantly
overtakes my wallet,
just as it did to hundreds of thousands of others.
the unpreparedness that I swore
wouldn’t be the case.
the loneliness and subsequent checking of egos
that intoxication encourages
and solves.

the stealing of internet connections
that take away from reading time.
real reading.
the thrifty use of my coffee maker
after one too many external espresso purchases.
the marks on walls I never made
but want erased for fear of torturous defense.

guilt factors high, here.
on the hill,
long since removed from that side
where painful memories haunt
the disturbed and current addictions
prohibit their resolution
long since separated from the trendy areas
where vegetarian cafes have flourished
in and amongst the lesbians
and rapid delivery of illicit substances.

the solitude a few hours of silence brings
just like at home,
just as when no other comfort was around but writing.
the endless questionable use of
interruptions
to new friendships that could easily go awry.
the water usage that might be too much
or the music that might be too loud
or the cooking that might be too fragrant
or the crumbs that might be too unswept
or the neurotic that might be too unsure of
his surroundings.

the toothache that could have been easily cured
had I kept that silly mall appointment
or the chapters that could have been easily read
had I stayed home that last friday night
or the garbage that could have been easily managed
had I removed the plastics from the bin before the coffee grinds
the espresso that could have been easily ground
had I stayed in that organic shop a little while longer
the guilt that could have easily been deflected
had I been on top of things a little earlier.

guilt factors high, here.