Stinging eyes are not to blame
For these fissured droves of queasiness
No, it’s all a foolish sport
Magnified under the warped lens of mutilation
And it’s hardly the future they had planned for me
These sparks course through every vein
With each pungent pulse
A tidal wave
Slapping me on the wrist
Paralyzing my power-socket mouth
Until it can’t form the words
“I fucked up”
Any more convincingly than your standard fuse box
My head is swimming
Awash toward nowhere
Lolling uselessly like that’s its job
Reminding my washing-machine stomach
That the agitator within it
Is no more material than the everyday nightmare
That this spin cycle
Staggering my gait and my breath
Is sustenance equated to jest
And sleep consumed by an addict
“You must have seen this coming”
Says left to right to mirror
“Seen huh?”
Replies reflection to pill bottle
Or so it sounds to me
Me, yes me
All two dollars and fifty cents worth
Clambering down the hallway
Drifting blindly through intersections
Or pretending to puff away the blues
Alone on a park bench at four a.m.
Picnicking
Single-handedly extinguishing any sign of promise
Gagging on the self-pity lodged in my throat
A foolish sport indeed
And as I close my notes to conclude this appraisal
A sinking feeling creeps to the top of the page
If this today
Then what tomorrow?
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