i’ve never been imprisoned by a suit and tie

too late once again
burned out by
pointless careers, broken women
and the consistency of the self
the night moves too slow
and the morning too fast

sunset’s final voodoo
strayed from a fragile fiction
as we sit in cars or bars
stubborn and frugal
waiting for a flash
of coded compassion

machine-gunned by love
when suffering is shallow
everything gets stained
teeth, shirts, keyboards,
and finally souls

loud and simple
we are born into a world
with too little
only to acquire too much
and
living is different among the flowers
voices, no understanding
and separate from the crowd
as inanimate people dump words
like spoiled fruit

sitting empty
with a scratch pad
backwards and repetitious
sentences escape me
and this addiction is one of
desperate recognition

nothing left to say
this mad circus has
consumed and depleted me
a new end is calling
what will happen when the world
has finally gone quiet

no solution to the problem of
how to proceed
living paycheck to paycheck
under the obligation of restitution
with days spent toiling,
oiling the wheels of a cursed machine
it’s an empty application
and a joke of the american dream

age, rage,
a disembodied sage
there’s no way out
and only a slim chance of
getting back in the game
we recognize failure but never gamble
afraid to give up or give in
release is a trap all it’s own

morning never arrives
as the night persists
penetrating the working day
and listening to the blues
was our only solace

where is my book
i need to escape
where is my life
i need to reshape

the message was oblique
viewed through a dream
on transparent screen
a warning incomplete
choose wisely she said

floating along
with a gentle vibration
in my hands and in my head
shaking me as i sit at this machine
and compose nothing of significance
the cords and cats are tangled
upon my desk
as i navigate memories
in search of warm coffee
this disorganization has a design though
a scattered purpose
and it seems
life is viewed as stream
of never ending memes

the dead are not really dead
they are just
desperate, distant
waiting to haunt and hunt
the waking world
once more

may the gods grant us passion
greater than this
persistent poison

295-ive-never-been-imprisoned-by-a-suit-and-tie-copy

 

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