the wrenching laughter
scrapes angry marks in the recycled air,
too heated,
our section of the stratosphere
presses gray & heavy with mediocrity.
This conversation is smog,
punctuated by bad cheese & flimsy chicken.
Anything you might say
would spray like febreeze over the heartbreak
& slightly improve the breath
pushing jagged from each pump.
Screw the moon
& its yellow belly
tonight I believe in the cynicism of midnight fog.
My body becomes a simple residue of solipsism & dust.
That swinging scam in the sky
(Too much. Too heavy. Too wrenching.)
All those moments just
aren't.
My body is already starting to rebuilding itself
after one more cycle
in a lifetime of gripping the in-between.
The rocks on the bottom refuse to smooth out
& this river represents sharpened distinction,
a live boundary carving the rules down to bedrock.
This poem came to life
at 65 miles per hour
& I am going to pieces faster than a waterfall.
Mind misted over
like somebody left the shower on
or made love too long
angry, the words shake & hurtle sideways,
the alphabet wets itself
after being forced through too many flaming hoops.
This pain is not a circus.
Although things do have a way of circling back
& I am living between the rings
collecting stale popcorn, gunpowder breath & wrinkled ticket stubs.
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