<\/p>\n
i’ve let this sit
\nfor a week or more
\nand it hasn’t changed much
\nall this comes to me
\nin little bursts, circling
\nobsessive cats,country girls,
\nhippies with beads,
\ncaptured children
\nand vampires on motor scooters
\none hot day at the race track, and
\none paycheck away from poverty
\nwith no hope and no fear
\ni tapped
\nrevelations and revolutions
\nfrom a fire tipped barley wine bottle
\nstill sick and lazy
\nwith nothing to write
\nand i’ve noticed,
\nin collective we are
\nshit for brains
\ndulled, awkward,
\nand slow to respond
\nthis leaves my words
\nintentionally abstract, guided
\nwaiting for the reader to decide
\nwhat it means and how it ends
\nsubjective, so mixed up and
\ngetting older
\nit’s all just a confidence game,
\nand even though
\nthey’re asking me to travel
\ntoo far, too fast
\ni don’t believe these people
\ncontrol me
\nbut there’s always conflict
\ncause where would we be without that?<\/p>\n
on the second day
\ni bought a record
\none of only three thousand
\nrare and valuable for a sucker
\nit’s still hot
\nbut the summer’s almost over
\nand once again i’ve reached the end
\nwith a blistered body
\nbinding a taxed soul
\nand driving these blue roads
\nlike veins through the city
\nat night
\nwith crushed silver
\nand dead batteries
\ni’m fueled by
\nboredom, expectations
\nfear and loathing, and
\nintrigue casts a drama like
\nfalse playwrights
\nforced to live off memories
\nand status updates
\nwhile i sit listening
\nto the sounds of passing traffic
\nwith no pedestrians
\nstirring in that house, alone
\nwith the sound of air conditioners
\nand wood stoves
\ncold sweats, and wet socks
\nsunlit smoke, hiding axes and oil lamps
\ni’ve lost that magic touch
\nlurking on the edges of civilized society
\ni’m nothing more than an
\nanti-social anarchist
\nantagonizing, and abdicating
\nthis fictional throne
\nthrough honest abolition<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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