the human practice

steal another ugly day
as the cars pass through
empty thoughts of winter
and my dog barks
in hollow defiance

i’m sitting here, at this righteous machine
smoking rolled cigarettes
and drinking black coffee
waiting for the inevitable
with solid indifference
waiting, and trying to capture
some measure of significance

it’s no good, this morning meditation
stabbing at the soul of dying words
i want to wage war
on the enemies of art
i want to shatter the chains
of naked slavery
and sharpen this silver tongue
on stone bodies waiting to be free

unstable
i read idle expressions
and write drunk dictionaries
lighting lazy fires in the rain
and hoping for a hidden retreat

looking out,
there’s moss growing on my window sill,
tiny cultures of green possibility

a thousand symmetrical eyes
planted in the soil of
solitary solar systems
every face is a flower
and every flower
eventually blooms

412-the-human-practice

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