Oh, no. It's happened again.
My precious words have been turned
back on me in a manner of which
I disapprove.

It hurts -- and words
only win their worth
when they're soft,
when they're

pretty.

Zombie on the boulevard,
and then, a Big Gulp at my back.
Wetness, confusion, anger.
Laughter at my expense.

Tense enough to jump
off the overpass,
stuck to land,
glad to live.

What can you do?

The odds are just as good that
the driver and the passengers would,
years later, die painfully from cancer,
or make the permanent ulnar marks
that I chose not.

Honeyed words are sweet, yes, you're right.
I demand truth of myself, and there are times,
when my self is not nice. Does that then make
my words unworthy compared to yours?

In the end, I see,
the answer doesn't matter.
I should ask, instead:
does it make you mad that
there are so many things out of your control?

I've accepted this.
I guess that's why

I find it funny.

Idealism boards its boat
and sails out to the ocean
and its middle reach.
Out as far as it will dare
it takes its detached opportunity
to yell its prayers
back at the beach.

"Wouldn't it be better,
if things were just [x] way?"

"The problem is that we're [here]
when we should be [there]."

Both bare and shoed feet
fist up the sand
and shout
shout, shout back --
They shout back,

"In the mid, your world is gold.
Here on the land, everyone's stomping toes.
On purpose. On accident. It happens.
**** happens. As far as living goes,
reality just is. So, sink with your conviction.
We challenge form, train adaptability.
Super humans laughing up from the tar.
We've come so far. We've come so very far.

It's still nothing."