What do you make of this?
I ask my cup of morning oil
Loyally sitting in front of me
the oil of versatility.
The oil that pushes me
with the ferocity
of a combat rooster
I sit in silence and contemplation
as my feet begin to itch. I must go. I must find time, of which I have little. I must discover the spaces between spaces to act out this sickness of desperation. I turn to my oil deity. As I run and stumble and fall in search of my cure, she sits there on the table every day, waiting for me to come home, knowing that I am just as sick as when I left and as the day before.
My love and damnation
She makes me endure.