the kind of dosage you swallow out of awareness
separation from your present state;
skidding, through the thoughts of
a golden wash of goodness as we
scratch at our minds for answers, pleading the back and the forth
as if it’d bring us closer to any revelation
any inner spot of fragrant, wholesome, peace
that we die for, try for,
dream about in dance
eventually coffee turns cold and you wake and you realize you’ve only been spinning language for ages and getting called beautiful;
it’s a trick,
like regurgitating our sins,
to squeeze the burden out from under the skin
and rehearse burning letters, along ourselves
the anthem to the liberation
from the coated and waxed framed guilt ridden pane of mind,
breaking a neck to watch the sky,
your vision is blurred, everything looks like its shooting this way and that and maybe all your wishes
are based on misinterpretations
still you dance your way to new york with lights as noose around your neck
strangled by life and its smooth bitterness,
the ease to unexpected accelerations,
not getting out of bed,
rummaging about a box of letters you were supposed to burn years ago,
ought to have,
else you wouldn’t be here contemplating permanence in jailed yellow paper with your cruel last name on all sides
******* my way through a calendar, how many years, just how many has it been,
crossing streets to shake hand with your burden-
your memory’s meanest friend