Why do you write?

the dance of action and inaction.

I’m lathered in witch hazel,

feeling the stillness, intentional movement

I create.

Oh I wish to be dancing, shining

spotlight dim on my body in the tub.

Condemned to the house of mystery.

Am I a player or getting played?

Creator of my own game.

Too blind to see past the rules.

To see time pass me by and pretend I don’t feel its stabbing knife.

A color gives a feeling and feeling strikes gold

and blue

and red

and any color bewitched to the eyes of man.

I can remember but choose to forget

unless the moment swallows me

again and again.

Never taking just one bite.

Greedy for the juice that flows supple beneath me

Digging deeper and deeper until—

Silence.

A hollow earth with nothing but mere soil and rock,

So eventually

after many a manys

you’ll get to the core.

So they say.

If I were a suspicious person

which I may or may not be

and won’t tell you,

but you may imply;

I would suggest a different tool

a different fool.

To bury the shovel

and WAKE UP:

to fingernails dirty with dirt.

Inefficient Coalition of Rock Digging Chums.

We The People.

Stand tall, prideful

our symbolic acts of ritual.

Too independently deluded,

collectively mad.

Group therapy at 6.

Everybody’s upset

nobody gets a sponsor.

And we all sit there watching the clock tick

wondering who will be the first…

To grab the Costco cookie calling my name.

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Oh no;

Have you forgotten about why you’re here again?

I’m in a marketing campaign, right?

And I want YOU to remember.

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