there’s a frost on the edgy, cragged tips
of the crackled, inclement lips of sanity
prompting me to slide my tongue across canyons of perilous weather to hydrate the
exsiccated existentialism- it's winding like a kitty tail against a cold window sill,
cloaking pretension and vanity,
vapid and driveling as the Sunday ads,
encouraging us to buy kool-aid for the soul- just add water and sugar for a smile
then turn left near the electronics and truck down by the music,
go straight for a mile
until you pass the old woman on the right holding a “do not disturb” door knocker
simultaneously a “will fuck for food” sign,
(see she doesn’t understand, and probably never will,
that while desperation can cling,
there’s a fine, fine, line
between a wasp bite and a bee sting)
rip out the coupon in jagged fashion with your teeth and cash it in with her,
she takes all kinds,
even if you have a fanny pack full,
she’ll pile them into her register,
organized by color, amount, size and expiration,
where she threads them and winds them on a giant electric company spool,
packed away in a canyon awaiting the day they are projected against epic, golden walls,
with first anger,
then
love,
acceptance,
and admiration.
