cool traces of places bluing my eyes like sky
craning neck and voice raised and finger cocked
headstrong but not valiant
deeply still waters rigged to run by smoothening looks
slick and sickly
a phase I’m going through
a turn I’m taking
a way I’m not going to go
chances left
being handed out like Monopoly money
handed over
sturdy planks of memories shoring up the day-to-day
my paint brushed on everyday things
like blood and tongues of fire
then it’s
a meal ticket and I’m hunkering down to hide my hunger
a skeleton arm and I’m a Dandelion’s cousin
a pyrite idea and I’m shouldering the burden of thoughtlessness
fishing with shoelaces
preaching sadness
an olive pit wrenched from the gut of disaster
skirting about the periphery
lamely disabused of whatever notions I once kept
of what I once was
of what I am now
of what I know
I’ll never get around
to being
the window is closed and I am screaming inside
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