Vacation Nothing

I don’t want a vacation, not in this,

Reprieve is relinquishing a contrarian’s greatest asset, his obstinacy

Consistent in the glare lighting that which he finds unacceptable

The population grows until it is easier that he vacate at times 

For the masses accumulated overpower his shambled flame

So that he be better to remove himself than attempt to change the tide

So in, to take a moment for breathing just sucks in the smog

The nothingness becomes all the more nothing, expanding in viral-clog 

Until what he thinks he wants also becomes part of the nothing

Then there is only nothing and a vague image of who he once was

Having coffee in a green field, but he does not drink coffee,

Yet on this day he is and the grass is so bloodedly verdant 

Welcoming like the way a lobbyist against an industry

Would later take employ inside that industry rationalized

As changing the machine from the inside, busting the cogs and manipulative variables

Yet the lobbyist stays a lobbyist of a varied-colored jersey  

His limbs and skin meld like metal to the hive-web sticky and bolted

The sugar is in his eyeballs and he no longer cares for the grass   

The streets are music-less and full of bovines and dung smearing under

The smiling go-getters skipping everywhere

Like a knife slit cheek to cheek tattooing the grin  

I do not want a vacation; I do not want to go to Mardi Gras

I do not want to play Lenten games or lick the ash white from the lawns

I am wary of the oblivion leviathan of apathy; the monsters of variance

The wanting of difference to be different and finding Different  

Cream-filled with the same nothing, the nothing cackling behind jester-cheeks

Trying to paint a smile on me; the want to be left alone is maniacal

Drug addict of the pragmatic, keep a head down and keep stitching, keep farming

Keep welding, keep pumping, keep walking, no skip now son, start skipping  

Or you will think about the nothing again, take some time, have a drink

Catch a break and breathe, a week, two, a month, six, a year, five,

How much you need before the signs don’t look like the signs?

The foggy nothing mist of morn filtering in and the absence is torn  

To make one believe there are no faces, no souls, no hearts, no hands

No answers, no demands, only the nothing like a hovering fog

No, no, nothing, I will not take a vacation, because I am watching you

I am always watching