Face to the sky
Even if the sun is in my eyes
and it's blinding me
so that everything I see is
in moonbeam white
and everyone is just as polite
as I want them to be.

In reality
there is darkness
and it seems it's only me,
who will give as much as I take
thinks promises don't break
knows I am headed to the grave
and (tries to)
make something good of it.

Because driving is just like smoking...
If we walk can we stop?
or at least slow down,
and move in blocks
instead of miles
and across the neighborhood
instead of The States.

The soot in my lungs
never felt so great, anyway.
I think my cue was a while ago.
Excuse me,
I'm coming in late
and these excuses stammered
are layered.

I'm too old to believe prayers
are anything but
a little self recognition and release.
So please, leave me be
while I lay on my face
and cry to the sky
for some semblance of relief.

I'm stoic and solidified
my mind, a block of ice
drifting through glacial tides
of callous contempt
exempt from empathy-
I don't want to relate.

Yet even still, I retaliate.
Home-grown surgery
might do a little good for me
a root canal
for that weird little machine
between my eyebrows
I might espouse humanity
back into my vocabulary.

All in all,
the ups and down will fold neatly
into an interesting
half-page obituary,
the sumination of a
less-than-elegant sequence
of events.

I am ever hesitant to repent
lest I resent my own penitence
for lack of pertinence.



C.e.M. 4.21.15
edited 2.9.17