it's
too goddamn much

i've plunged into some despaired pit
where words are worth
the weight of your pocketbook

beg, you peckers of poetry
for a single stanza
for the grief that inhales
the deep murado smoke
of rose tinted, half-broken lenses

you are not worthless
because you don't produce
reproduce
you are not a terrible parent
for your errors

he or she is waiting
for a call tonight

how tragic it becomes
to love another
to only lose that love,
but how boring must we become
to go numb from time lost
the cost of freedom
the loss of any kingdom

restrained in the two row train
as you barrel past the ocean
atlantic or pacific
the gulf of mexico

when the sharks swim like minnows
and you burn with an ink
with interminable knowledge

this life is not yours
and you are not the shark
you're just fraying
in the swallowed mess of endless movement

so, like the hand of the hunter
the snare of the fowler
kill yourself

or become the new order

they are both about the same price
commitment is optional