The bullet whizzing past your head
is in actuality only a metaphorical bullet
whizzing past your actual head.
The dead yawn in the streets
while the haggard sun glazes their bones.
You’re alone, really alone, I mean REALLY alone,
for the eighth time in your life,
and since it’s the eighth time,
it’s practically home.
It’s practically the gut-busting punchline
that makes up for the tedious set up.
Where was I going with this?
It’s hard to think with a layer of silt
laid on your brain, and even harder to think
when you think not to think.
One of these days, the shit fence
you call a worldview is going to be
swallowed up by the ground. Then what?
Then business as usual will continue as usual,
only in a different key. You’ll see a great sign
in the sky, a frenzy of burning gold.
You’ll feel older, and you’ll look the part.