Do you ever have those days where you feel like an ugly mother fucker?
You look in the mirror and back away
With an, “Oh my God.” or a “That’s right, I forgot.”
Arbitrary shell and I keep blaming the tortoise
For not being quicker on the uptake
Of what this is and how it works
Sloth
lice and pheromones
Vagabond
scents stranded up in swamp trees
Water,
no ground, hanging remote
Demeanor
of a scab strike
For
the days I no longer feel like picketing
Walk
across and commune with the mundane malaise
Know
thy name! Put the photo tag in the appropriate
pile
Station
and access codification, plain-view worker
Know
thy floor and elevator button, see the lights, don’t bother running
Creatures
of habit to the clinging static of sandpaper conversations
Or
oil and aloe lubricate to the marrow of extracting the pertinent commentary
Lunch
tables and board rooms, height and eye diameter, symmetry of banter
Close
the circumference in little talks in hallways
Drinks
and lungs inebriated sideways, misconstrued definitions of lovely hues
Splayed
across ceilings like angelic umbrance to humanity
Transparent
sight detailing both the soil and the sky
Dirty-filth
and a canvas reflecting the ocean
Contents
of core elements the motion and the trample-norm
Expectations
in the loam and the foam churning rotation
Of
those turned pick-up remnants and at times resigned
To
be as quiet as the line of knowing
The
decadence of silence, avoiding mirrors consciously
Knowing
the nature of the sky, averting gaze
Flint
buried in the mud, wondering if a caveman
Can
ever pull the rock out to start a fire
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