PM1303162
The sun shines, melting all the snow of
the previous night, all the vestiges of a hard night of
work destroyed in the twinkling of an eye.
I aspire to vanquish the storm clouds
on the horizon and deep inside my mind
but they remain, fluttering eyelids will not
make the blackness disappear nor the
cold icy blast of Arctic air that comes
streaming across the parking lot and taking
up room in my heart.
Though my feet may freeze and my fingertips
turn black and fall off,
I cannot warm them, not even by
sticking them directly into the epicenter of
a fire, icicles still dangle, tauntingly,
and I can only wonder how the fuck that
is possible.
I feel the poison building back up in
my brain,
every time I breathe it is there to
remind me who is in control and the
amount of time I actually have left.
The poison, whether up from my heart
or downward from my brain, its trying
to destroy me from the inside out and
I can't see far enough inside
to get the poison out. If I can't see
it the doctors will claim its not there
but I know it is there and I can feel
it slowly digesting the insides of my
skull cavity. All this time I thought
it was my teeth, but it goes far deeper
than that.
To truly rid myself of all poison I would
have to cut off my own head,
not a viable option,
at least if I am still deciding to
keep on going.
Can't make a go without the head.
Blow it all out disintegrating tissue after
tissue,
the only way to survive but it will surely
catch me one day,
one day it won't stop until every
ounce of fluid has been drained from my
body and I will remain, mummified,
in whatever position I happened to be in.
Other choices exist but I am blind to their
existence, be it dictated by intelligence or
even common sense, both curiosities I'm not sure
I possess.
Turning over I wonder if the next
breach will be my last,
will I feel something inside me
permanently detach and spell out
the last thing I will ever do.
Will I drain over a clean surface
leaving a blot or stain where I once was,
or will it simply be washed over with a
mop and a bucket of water and pine-sol?
The people I see here are getting dumber
by the second,
so many vacant looks and equally
vacant stares,
they ask me questions while the answers
are there, open, right in front of their faces,
yet they don't possess the eyesight to just reach
out and take it.
It would be so easy,
yet life is not easy and it never
promised to anyone to be easy,
they certainly got that one right
as an unfettered run is next to
impossible.
I glimpse into the future daily and I
never see that silver lining
that is rumored to exist in each cloud,
only endless billowing that seems so
light, yet weighs us all down with such
excruciating force and dexterity.
You want to blow it all away with a hair
dryer but there is no extension chord long
enough to reach to the sky for that purpose.
Instead you watch them and try to
figure out what shapes they have transformed
themselves into on that day,
when you know deep down that it has only
been a matter of chance,
and surreal exercise in your mind.
A dog, a cat, Otto Von Bismarck, you can turn
them into anything you want to.
I prefer land masses to people or animals,
you can't insult anyone that way,
how can one not appear to be fat if they
are told they look like a cloud?
Furious rage is beaten down onto your head
as you try and make sense of every
oxymoron you have ever heard,
and you have run out of ideas on how
to make any more.
Bittersweet irony was the only irony ever
invented.
MCC
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