Arachnid fingers
picking at my heart
like the peach pit
torn from its soft, sweet home and
swiftly discarded.
Stuck to the side of a garbage bag,
perhaps one day it will take root
in some far off landfill and
grow into a clumsy metaphor
for beauty
amid heaps of ****.

That girl
with the cotton candy colored hair at
the corner of Fourth and Chestnut
struggles
with four garment bags.
Where the **** is she going
with four garment bags?
I see her every day,
sweating,
shifting her burdens
from arm to shoulder,
then back to arm.
Except when I’m running late;
quarter past whenever.

At least tomorrow is Friday
when we can all gag on our toothbrushes.
The privilege of a clean mouth
should come
with some discomfort.

Twixt here and horror
the path is littered with
chapped lips and broke-down transmissions.
Mandatory overtime.
That itty-bitty “but for this” was enough
to cleave my soul in twain, but
not right down the middle, no,
since it would represent a minor mercy
to be blessed with
some sense of congruity
in times like these.
Instead, what remains is
a big half and
a small half and
the big half eats the small half and
is left invariably lonely and sad and
filled with regret for this
lack of impulse control.
That **** is ******* me up, man,
its ******* me up.
Reserve your judgment.
Please.

Because I want to be strong I am weak
Those fickle petty rules by which we live
            Have made me sick
I'm not immune to having dreams and desires
When every better part of me
            Has been seduced
By the velveteen swans that flash as images in my mind
And on the plasma screens for which I bleed

And really I have grown
Grown sick and tired and exhausted
From breathing the air I need to live
The toxic vile air
Causing cancer
From drinking from the well
Which has been poisoned

I like my poison undiluted

I like my poison clearly marked
By sinister skulls and crossbones
          With the worst of intentions
I would actually enjoy the knowledge
That this poison in my blood
           Is going to reach my once enamored heart
Which used to beat with the hope for tommorow
And now is a rhythmic device in a song full of sorrow

And really I have died
Dangerous oderous chemical sand timers
I've died a thousand insecure lives
In a false world
With fake meaning
And my arteries and veins will attest
This disease is a foe that never rests

I like my poison undiluted