On the Verge

On the Verge Every hand is pocket bound, eyes lifted from the TV’s hallowed glow. Breath is released in a low sigh; worming, squirming, squat. Thrust out of bounds in tandem, nothing is done alone. You’re seen, you’re sought, you’re it, maybe you need a pill? Vomit is on the upswing, visual stimulation overload. Brain cells can’t sort this one out, tears are dry as bones. Your neck is turned full sideways, the punch is coming on fast, Quick reaction is not your strong suit, fall to the floor, break like glass. What is happening to this picture, not set, not neat, not bound? Houses, cars, children, stores, benchmarks strewn by the way You’re in need of a clutch hit, your world is stumbling on. Detachment, resentment, complacence, smug on your rug as a bug. Happiness is a gun over-warmed, second hand shits on a turd. Feet of clay encased in cement, your vomit is now overboard. 11/11/17