Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
What’s done is done
(with a whole lot of fun).
But meaning to squander it
on diamond rings and puns
scratches out any meaning of it.
When every limb aches
toes bent to equate
pads of feet liquidate.
sore swollen pink pads
of sour hate
can barely stand or walk.
The power to get up
(in the morning)
is the power of will.
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Bound from stuck book binding heat.
Let the pages come loose and steep
with melting spines, let them unbind.
unwound like an 80s cassette
tape or knotted earphones.
Lie to work as words
are written down in lyrical sound.
Scrape the edges of the page
as nearness begins to wave.
It is so HOT in here
(like a fiery gin)
(or flames wreathing within)
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Ridges under shoe pockets,
the once white soles
turned to russet dust
or pasty cream from wearing them
too damn much.
(take a hint?)
Form that sweat into slush,
watch the book glue melt,
not burn as the hot sun
beams across its faded paper.
A list, so crinkled by time.
A dollar, so thrashed,
it disappears into the grime.
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