All I can think to
do is write,
To keep wading
through the time planting here
Like an
incremental tide risen forever days ago
Undulating in the
space above and below my lips
Taking breaths
when I can
Uncertain if the
liquid will swell
Aware of the mud
clumped higher than my ankles
Below the black
fluid, struggling only makes the mass stickier
Solidified in the
diatribe of too many factoids logging about
Beneath the
surface, old tires, chain saws, six-pack plastic wrappers
Smudged-ink
contracts, fire-proof boxes, VHS cassettes, Bibles
Laundry chutes,
minivans, lace cookies and Christmas trees
Anchors of career
in oxidized apathy rust, oil-slick concern
Wipe the surface,
disperse the benzene from the hose
Press the
keyboard, organize the digits, characters, places the aces under the twos
Four-suit spider
solitaire victories the notable successes of the day
Random access
memories disempowering the urge to complain
Trash can build
up of un-recycled prints jobs, screens of blah
Kamikaze battle
plans at least their deaths occurred with a faith to at least one purpose
United for
nothing, oblivion of dates, passing, merged into one unending
Present day,
sunrise is a meaningless demarcation noting
The absence of a
border where astronomers would like to note the point at which
A revolution
based on a polarity and the shifting of season on one orb around another
Preposterous, the
grid, the slab, the blackness encompasses all
This tipping,
this turning is that of one ant in a hill drooling in a rotating direction
Under the command
of pheromones amongst trillions of others
Babbling the idea
that any idea was unilaterally conceived and consummated
End the dirt, the
mirage, the practice that these tattoos
Bubbling on my
calves, torso, and biceps are scars that I would rather not view
The water is
serving a purpose shielding me from facing intimate disgust
I have prayed for
the pheromones to raid my brain, guide me God
I give my
subservient submission to a tasteless, odorless, colorless path
Trying has gotten
me nowhere but the fringe of Satan’s needle
Rollicking
laughter that the devil could be anyone, but my own hand
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