A Box in Neon Pink Paper Outside My Door

I'm here at work because.
Because I have to change the medium on my transfected cells.
Because I wanted to play on the computer.  Because I eat if I sit at home alone.  Because I can.  Because I have nothing better to do.

My mother sent me gifts.
She loves giving gifts.
She loves giving gifts to me.
I hate these gifts.  Big problems that I need to keep or toss or find another home.  And I need to say how wonderful they are, how much I love them, how much I love getting them.

I don't like poetry.
I don't think this is poetry.
I don't know what to write.  But I need to connect.  But I need to feel that someone knows who I am.  Even if I feed her all the lines.

                                     *******************************************

It seems to me modern artists insist it isn't art if it doesn't shock and provoke.  When did it become lowly for art simply to be beautiful?  To reflect the beauty of the world, to provide beauty to ingest.