Tidal, shock or radio .wav file—mind the miles we travel to cradle profitable toxins. Out-of-stock oxygen, I spent seven years counting fault lines in a cracked mirror. Painkillers furnish my bloodstream while I amputate my signature—spill rubies. Spotless miniature jackhammer tattoos my concrete flesh’s outer perimeter—no primer while they adjust my braces with a sledgehammer. You’d lift a finger but your miracle forgot its camera. I lick every paw’s thorn out and use this standard-issue neck brace to jump through burning hoops of posthumous preempts—something along the lines of, but not quite, solace. Being held responsible must be the equivalent of hostage. On the one hand it’s right I comprehend this—the other is writing with what’s left. And even [g]od has a stunt double, wearing a steering-wheel halo zooming through NASCAR prayer circles. Unable to stop the growth of faith as cash crop, hoping the fish on the end of that sword you swallowed doesn’t decide to flop. And, even when the tourniquet suspends the appendage’s hemorrhage, I’m still a skeptic for suspecting the question’s answer wasn’t worth the lesson—revealing the essence of shadow, eclipsing what remains of the crescent. My life was postmarked “Return to Sender,” still hesitant to just wait until Never ends…
Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts and turn back? Stay or stray? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road…
Picture the timeframe…
I open a window to let the fresh air out and, with a desktop mandible, the rock in my mouth is a paperweight to keep my tongue form blowing away under my breath. Stuttering concepts stumble their way off the throat’s elevator only to scoff at failed tatters of fluttering sailboats or the airplane’s paper feathers. I prey on wild hunters trying to trick the candlestick lit by ritual burnout. Decode the sketch’s collision with realism. Now, your microscope can magnify my skepticism—watch the lens process your empty assessments which still have at least a hint of silhouette. Men with lab coats and linoleum shoes recalibrating their eyebrows’ height by degrees of slight misinterpretation. As introverts we don’t recognize our senses lie outside us. Here’s a sleeping tongue in a wet crib with loose bars, fallout shelter around which you drive by shooting stars. My last request? Please dig my grave with a stop sign… Trespass beyond landmines that let limbs dance at length, though the song’s long over when time comes to if ever land there and expose my insufficient insides. Think tanks crunching butterfly skulls like gravel, while trickle down theory’s a wet leg. My doctor suggested I quit drinking, it’s not good for my health, and said, “Here, take this, it’ll help you stop medicating yourself…”
Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts, turn back or wander the globe? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road… From nothing to nowhere, I’ve come…been utilized by every aspect—not the wizard but the magic tapped from his wand like cigarette ash as evidence that all things must burn…
Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts and turn back? Stay or stray? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road… From nothing to nowhere, I’ve come…been utilized by every aspect—not the wizard but the magic tapped from his wand like cigarette ash as evidence that all things must burn…
