Centipede Perspectives

Centipede Perspectives

This poetry is bloodletting

Fundamentally unproductive, yet deemed necessary given

My obligated vapid disgust for prolonged lethargy

Attempting action is pragmatically preferable to submission as a Dr. Phil suggestion

Depressive dull void gums the joints coagulated in an

Overdue oil change sticker on the windshield

Only the driver notices, the paint job is substantially the same

So many seasons of monochrome mismanaged deliveries

Like a besot Santa Claus, transposing chimneys and bricking apart homelands

Cryptic and crumbling, the hue of the grass has no meaning

Under all this debris shadowing the frivolous nature of lawn care

Garage left open, the world can see my inoperable weed eater

Petroleum fueled neon string loose, uncoiled and viper-like

Unattached and flopped upon the concrete, resigned to a life of

Filibustered legislation to slip such lines into microscopic holes

Of tie down recirculation into the mechanisms of edging slice-able

Centipede blades, “Oh, winter will cure their rebellion.”

Zombie horde of brambling inclinations to neighbors

That this grass dweller, gives a shit about appearances

“Doug, I can really borrow your Husqvarna?”

Declare your faction, I am the other.  Alcatraz of Ponchatoula pretenses

My daughter reprieves my execution ever sunset

Love has been hitchhiking in a train tunnel

Speedways in charcoal vision, dusted smudge-black

Get this damn taste out of my mouth

This coffee-grind remnant fraternity-boy initiation digestion

I wretch thee thrice, like a Saint Peter sound-check before show-time

I accept pariah-dog skunk-stench, repel and relish, this sober-Bukowski shtick is no act

I am answer-less, wanting to weep, whelp into a fetal-egg

Absolve myself of all masculinity, extract this sperm and revert into

A pearl of possibility and not be this dysfunctional me incapable of

Friendship or love or being desired as an accompaniment on a traversable ice bridge

All these nameless faces I assume their disgust like offering feces quesadillas

Or African mud cookies for sale on a New York lunch hour vagabond food truck

Fantasy or reality I am equally alone.