the flesh of things withers and disappears like cotton candy in water
a question begged of mercy
a strain on the quality of light being sought after
and then of course the tempering of resistance with malice and pulled pork sandwiches
the rights of way always belong to some unknown somebody
we merely have ways of going down the road feeling bad
the glibness of sanity is the horror of being alive
the truth of love is the curve of leg
greet memories with chopsticks and poppies
have breakfast under a tidal wave
the hurt of today’s hunch is the luck of yesterday’s burglary
we are the means of a never ending try
we are the gristle cut from the bone
there is no respite from the lurch in the wheels of the thing
just an unsatisfying lapse in judgment
that just might
with the right kind of eyes
at least
get one thrown in jail
for
at least
99 years
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