Forward

The path forward is yours

It's long, has many detours,

and orbits some vast space of resentment

There is no end to it

It's likely unfulfilling

And, always, you will end up where you began.

Minutes

The charlatan moves to bury his sleeve
Bloodsoaked and miserable
In the shallow grave dug earlier in the day
The excessive panting and occasional waning
Of the circling sawmill workers
Swan deeply with his fiddle

This place, fixed, forever still
In his speech will remain a wound
Showing itself occasionally
In certain lighting, and with the appropriate victims
An ugly, unburyable thing

It's Almost Time

The countdowns begun
The ignitions lit
At the edge of the diving board
It's almost time

5 seconds till the beep
There goes the last commercial break
10 minutes to clock out
It's almost time

Feet are sturdy enough now
Patch should hold
The space heater was turned off
 It's almost time

He's cruising on the furniture
The bubbles are forming on the top
The realization begging a grin
It's almost time

The wave is cresting
The silence is deafening
The pain is pleasure
It's almost time