Bowling for….
I want to reach into my chest cavity and grip back to my spinal chord
Grasp to my vertebrate and yank. I want to crumple on the floor here
Zone out as my slosh bag of organs sluices through the grates of my collateral clothing
Soaking into this very moderately priced waxed laminate flooring expanse and these rental shoes
Staining and retaining some segment of this sludge for at least until a Thursday from now
My skull, my femurs, and streusel crumble of bones can stack like match sticks and hand grenades in the corner for a chuck wagon parade of carnival throws for February approaching
In the allure of voodoo please tag them as certified me so that no one mistakes them
As typical made in China
I want out. I am a soup pouch with a straw devoid of complex broth only sanguine coughs
Intermixed to guide the ship in spurts, overall this disinterest just warps the curves that
I am no good for anyone. I will never be if I have not manufactured the basic element of
Discarding this selfishness by now I never will.
I would rather be alone than expend the faith to believe that anyone else could ever find enjoyment or a reciprocating platform of joy in me. I am a want-to-be dream theater of a toilet.
Not even chosen in a line of festival-goer shit-booths that appear identical yet some how
I am left untouched neglected for even the stalwart task of excrement collection
I am numb and aching in concert part of me divergent ascending towards a deep realization that with God I need not human joy to achieve sustenance and the despair of path devoid of human contact conversing in analogous appreciation to an invisible deity for the beauty of this solitude and the repercussion of being so devoid of hope that there is better than to even attempt to try again.
Faith busted like bowling pins in the last frame of the last day in the last game before the wrecking ball demolishes all the alleyways for respite. All these striped white pillars of rotund oblong jolly men are leg-whipped off their haughty porch like asphyxiated decapods
Incapable of remaining standing in attention compressed like beach balls preparing for trunk travel violently forcing the air out to extinguish their mocking laughter at my solitude
Yet I do not strike. I do not move. I am stationary with thumbs too large to fit into the triad of holes on the ball my muscles are capable of lifting, thus making me incapable of addressing this situation with the proper tools. So I contemplate hurling this fallow carcass like a waste management professional procurement officer would thrust his treasure trove upon the heap at this bumptious decimal system
Grip into my would be thorax and crumple into my own personal mire awaiting the aid
Of anyone, just anyone to collect any clunky component that may disperse itself upon the floor
To be utilized as a newfound battering ram at these obtuse advisories, yet nothing transpires
Except the calling of a janitor to dispense sawdust and a push broom to plop my former façade
Into a schedule pick up time for the golden sack collection crews destined for the landfills of greater Tangipahoa Parish
No comments:
Post a Comment