Oyster Beds

Oyster Beds

Can I give up? Please, just let me let go

The apathy is like a bog drowning and gurgling in this fetid black sludge

I want to stab myself to feel alive, pragmatic, purposeful, and poignant

To the movements of my own life

These wheels screeching and rusted and confounded in the dirt

Of this crustacean shell shed, waiting here in this vulnerable soft body

Impractical sluiced and wanting to be squished and shredded under foot

In the oblivion of interaction

Praise the vagabond gratitude drinking in slurps and winces

What is the point, the objective of this reality grasping for foot tacks?

To insert like vertical holding pillars of sustaining pain to transfer evidence

Of contrapuntal relevance to this argument of purpose

Big love like a crashed tractor trailer abandoned in a roadside bombing

Detonated in a vulture buffet carcass penitent and sorrow-filled

That any of this wishing washing whizzing passers by had relevance

To this argument of proximity

Not wanting to find victory or rationalized score board of justice imbued

By the retroactive application of history pumped out like cake icing on a feces Doberge

Smashed in a an oral cavity in a solid brick to prevent any verbal prison escapees

Clog in the emotional rapists and thunderclap murderers keep them stored

For charging like a cell phone battery capable of, but pent communication

Embarrassed and sot on the binge of this ignominy to bare this oyster body

Sot with the mercury of depressive tendencies, taciturn drenched in this logic

Of a man declining to forge another path, exhausted to proclaim a pure desire

To want unfettered past the mirage of this disastrous haze to utter I want this

Coiled up in a corner of a mutter that all I wanted was a simple life

A wife, a child, a home, a job, enough to bend the ends of this line into a circle

To pair the convex with the concave in a parallel conjoining

This Enron, this Andersen, this Duplantier, this Jane, this Katrina, this Dallas,

This Beechwood, this Weldon, this Will to go on slashed to admit I am too weak

To continue, to pick up the components of this skeleton and appear here as mollusk

Feeling as tiny, in need of a regenerating serum to multiply exponentially to feel

A novel normal because the vertebrate is no longer home, the exoskeleton

I put on for her is no longer home, yet I live next to its abandoned conch

Tepid to re-crawl in to its Indian village confines, pent on self-strangulation

To press out every molecule of oxygen connected with her and bifurcate a new me

Feeling whole yet a-new, me but not a me she can lay foot upon

Feeling re-defined to fathom claiming any part of this whizz wasteland

To chuck out the vulture vomit from this re-fabricated cranium

A new man, birthed with the ability to dream, to lay foundation to the house

Of my bed thoughts that there is more than a sentencing, a pace pretend

A beauty in a Seattle weekend, a candle held and a flame not in constant need

Of focusing between the lenses of what was for what is

To bend the spectrum like a wielded sword powerful and slashing back at all

The gargoyles of those cathedral memories swarming down like statuesque

Monuments to that which must be blended as these bones, these skeletons must

Converge, this hybrid mutant must arise with battle plans and tattooed forearms

Like anchors of the millennium dawning I will spit the bit of this mule chain gang

I will feast upon my own luau with copious tropical harvest awash in this salty shore

Knowing the oyster beds are full, the water is appropriate for the season, and December

Is only the beginning