Breathe Out

Outside
we stick to rundown streets to sift through the mud, grime, silt, and shit.  We set up traps with the intention of snaring Inspiration. It’s been a long time since anyone around here has seen her.

Inspiration is a bitch, the kids smoking Moxie on the corner call.

Three hits and they think they’re who they’re meant to be.
They blow smoke and criticize and point fingers and watch others and say whatever they think and they never ever apologize.
They don’t show weakness.  They point it out.

We probably look like fools.
Inspiration is outdated and
nobody feels like caring these days.

A voice from a dark doorway.  It asks if we want to have a good time.
We look at each other, two sets of eyes filled with doubt, but
our feet make the decision for us.

Inside
DJ Apathy spins warped records at Club Hopeless.  There are sold out crowds every Saturday night.

Sunday morning we wait at the bus stop with the others trying to explain away the pain we’ve caused.  The damage we’ve done.
When will I learn to stop listening and just accept what I am?

One day that bus is gonna be a chariot and take us far away from here, someone says.

One scoffs.

Another applauds, thinking he’s caught a rare glimpse of what we’ve been missing.

Those who have temporarily adopted a straight face know he’s still just high from last night.

What I keep preserved:
I’ve never ridden in a chariot and I never would.
Even if they let me fucking drive it.

34.117275°N 118.375281°W

There is NO SMOKING IN THE CANYON
We share takes on life with downcast eyes.

Do you abide, lovely?

Only until there’s another avalanche.

The fire clenched its hand over the wooden teepee.
The soughing logs screamed,
You’re witnessing history.

Bed down now.
Backs Xed out in the craggy limestone.
You turn to tattle when there’s time,
We better put this out and sleep.

Daylight expunges dark revelations.
There’s talk out there of catharsis,
but it’s always remained a foreign name.

We herd emptiness back toward home and
give up on “good night.”

Your hands on the wheel
My face of stone

We probably left the laurel burning.