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A poem a day each April, for Katya the Poet's Dew Drop Inn |
| Brian tells me he cannot even brush his teeth but he can grind them, gnash them, bite he masticates a bitter testimony in the dark He is not seeking help, an answer or solution - the only one he sees is death, and he will not do the deed because he has to leave correctly, go with honor and because he does not want to harm and with all the problems permanent, there is no hope no dream no promise every dawning is too much, each night too late no one calls, nobody knocks, none care He is focused on the morally corrupt. Musk has purchased a repulsive prez the monks are sleeping with disciples preachers reach for widow's pittances and everyman is grasping, me me me The land is full of Lyme disease he will not walk into the woods - besides, the Trumpsters live too close, their signs say Fuck Your Feelings and his feelings, fucked, raw nerves exposed he almost wails the words I never had a chance what with a father like the one he got, the devil or a demon or at any rate adulterous and cruel and with a mother who would pray for miracles and stay despite the damage to her self and son he tries he says he tries he tries and he is doomed but to be honest I cannot discern the trying He has requests: to be struck dead, please, by assassins or in some random, fast attack - to be extracted, drunken driver cutting down his path, really anything that does not require him to act For this he asks and asks and asks but the world, indifferent, spinning, carries on with other tasks. note ▼ |
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