Fuente De La Juventud

Cracked cups. A decrepit vehicle.
Carpets worn by cats and feet.
Dead friends and forgotten wars.

A creeping sensation of futility.
Patterns of time’s ruination.
Things that have fallen apart.

A clock ticking posthumous life.
A grave comfortable before dug.
Days worn out like old shoes.
Time for starting over, over.

A choice must be made.

Life consists of confrontation.

Fingers must slide along
the knife’s sharp edge
willing to bleed now,
seeking the present’s point

or sink into baffled silence

an impotent oracle isolated
that has missed the last bus,
cantankerous and ignored,
Anxious, angry, and alone

mute in this silicon world
unable to speak to the unknown.

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Help keep me on my meds. I think I’ve lost my neck…

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