Blaze

When I wake up, something in the stuffy air, hates it,
whispers, “Rest for a while,” but then becomes
a maelström of chaotic motes as I walk, and I
have to trudge, and then pick up pace, and finally
run, I know I don’t do this alone, and I don’t know
what the future holds, and whether things fit together,
or fall apart, I’ll have to endure, but I’ll say this, you don’t
become what you say or think or feel, and there is
no cottage nestled in a reverie, but neither
is there a wasteland, litter and debris stays scattered
unless you pick it up and throw it in a trashcan,
and you can choose becoming the funeral poet,
blaming that coffin, as it slowly shuts, screaming,
while the gasoline that you pour on yourself
catches fire, and they’ll say, “Brilliant!” But I guess
that flawed Dane was right about them, and about other
things as well, but I haven’t gotten to reading him yet,
and I don’t care about coffins or skulls anymore,
I write this to the alcoholic, or degenerate, or whatever
it is they want to call them these days, and I’ll admit
that some might be too far gone, but a switch blade
cuts through a few others each time the liquor
burns through, or those images they watch haunt,
and tells them that it’s not the bottle, or the screen
(since all the women have left them)
but them, sure, the cougars love you, the rest say that what
you do is real, but they are twisted, and won’t stand
by you when your vision blurs, and you can’t even
get up anymore, art cannot affect life, and neither
can life distort art, and so try, and toss the bottle
against the hard wall, let it break, but don’t ever say,
“I did it!” If you succeed, there are people lying
on desert sands watching the sky for weird
explanations of things, others who think that
being cryogenically frozen, or inserting something
in their heads will give them answers, and trust
me, I’ve spoken to them, but let them stay
zombies with all the knowledge, but no insight,
but I guess you’ve seen enough now, to know
that some other hand sets fire to the
alcohol, the screen, and house you’re in,
and makes you walk (recovering), while it blazes.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

Protected by Copyscape

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