Your mind isn’t some dusty rafter,
looking like an ancient church burned to the ground by hypocrites and their delusions of order.
Not even the writing utensils
you always said
would be there.
No words to express the depth of how
much you care about this little waste
But you do care.
You care so so much.
You care until you find yourself
on the bedrock of a bed-bug riddled carpet
soiled by coal burns and laundry detergent, inhaling a handful of nicotine
into hyperventilating lungs, repeating the romantic mantras
of self-made men,
and appealing to an invisible omnipotence
that mundane pharaoh’s and their portentous hieroglyphics
won’t burst through the fabric of gravel, and non-existent currency, and youthful angst
and swallow you like Jonah
to spit you out on barren dunes of entropy and day-to-day frustrations.
You worry until the anxiety of generals and gods
renders you forlorn and forsaken
by good fortune,
and you wake in a mound of stresses piled high, like
used car parts in an east-end
and you watch as all the careful strategies and battle tactics
chase their own endings into
a paradox of unsustainable
And even as the moon of gritty, objective
smashes through your idealistic window
until the blood and glass mixes
with the tears of a premature breakdown,
you desperately hope the world
is even real, that it isn’t all some twisted, solipsistic
and you hope you’re not alone,
and that a day exists where the landscape of her fingertips is the only
thing worth analyzing
and sleep overcomes all other, lesser
and the silence of eternity carries
your life-soaked legacy
beyond the infinitesimal
and into vivid, dancing