Wednesday, November 26, 2014

the meat-packing district

giving myself street cred, these hotel
knick-knacks are all mine.
that bible doesn't hide itself well.
that bible is mine.

a screeching halt, squirrell

on the road- you fair well
in trees, fences to trees

beach chairs in the backyard
to trees.
it is the summer and i think.

i'm doing everything i can
to see past the thinking.
furtively learning how to cook,
one tablespoon of flax seeds

in my experimental shakes,

myself to loosen up.
i see it through the telescope next
i see you shaking in your boots.

look at you, obsessing over
the garden only half-yours,

take a chill pill.
go camping.

you're at that waterfall
cool mistiness spritzing

all over your willing

look at that fake-meditation.
look at you wondering

what your third eye is
supposed to look like, anyway.

look at you slurping at your
own soul
fast as you can

confusing the meat with the god.
sat nam! sat nam!

if it doesn't work out by the time
you're thirty.
if it doesn't by twenty seven.
if it doesn't by sunday.

closer and closer to god.

all your gestures of dwindling
going into

kissing a bullfrog,

praying to the shower-head.

even closer.

slice up

that stomach
you've a tummy ache, no?

somatic pain
is a big warning sign.

worms or meat or
both at once,
pots and pans for atmosphere

press the distress signal.
stop the conveyor belt.

horse voice and hat hair.

shut down the factory.

there are other ways to make money.