trunkard

Small-scale celebrity:

Pull one over on me.

We’re starting to sing to scream in a chorus.

We’re starting to look at each other the wrong way.

Oh great, oh yeah.

Oh great, oh yeah.

We’re growing

more and more accustomed

to the shapes of our houses

the sound of hymns 

creaked out from the pipings

even though it’s disgusting.

Look,

I know that it’s disgusting.

Crusted up

all over my body like icing.

But we do what we can

then we yell about it later

to feel like we have some sort of say.

Why must devolve

perpetually 

to the dueling of trinkets spat out like a venom?

I can’t support myself on my own.

I need to be fortified with beams and boards.

Or at least smashed apart by a million hammers.

The only

thing we’ve established here

is disgust

and a standard to judge off of.

Sometimes, the air grows rancorous

and sound waves work

   against our will

despite the poise and pleasure and passion.

Despite the rooted belief in conviction.

I am convicted of a crime

 a treachery

a shadow that will not stop off at the heels

which I’ve no choice

but to carry around like a stone.

 Stone upon Stone,

sedimentary.

           -clw

              1-13-05
copyright: C. Ward 2016

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