ground into glass, lacerating lucidity.
Down supermarket aisles dull-eyed and aching
as daily endless offices spill into vacant villains
like sloven doped up stooges running roughshod unrelenting.
-----
Lactose intolerant demons climb
from intestine to my brain stem, driving
incandescent fever visions of SEPTA trolley greasy wheels
where sickly souls go diving into
muddy puddle storm drains unwanted and unseen.
-----
A mad man is simply he
who's bled the gauze of avarice from his eyes;
is simply she
who's finally broken her baggage, tossing sad to the wind.
Oh how free the lunatic fringe truly is,
straitjacket laced clozapine blues not withstanding.
-----
Alas, I'm infinitely sound of mind in all the wrong ways
alone to my congregation of dying furniture and home electronics;
this will be forgiven, I pray,
lest a yard sale see them banished as inanimate nonbelievers.
And through the heart of every
never quite psychotic night,
a sleepless dancing cavalcade haunts my graceful failures.
Or is it simply failed grace they taunt to all but tearing numb?
-----
ground down from caramel caffeine jitters,
count my lucky stars for what I have,
and vow again this year
to find out just what that might be.
-----
Unless, that is, there's something
especially good on the tube.
Next year then?
For sure.
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