“Step it up! ” my passengers intone. <br />“We’ve places to go.” <br /> <br />Head down. Jaw locked. <br />It isn’t supposed to work this way- <br />no fulcrum to bear against, <br />and there’s the matter of weight ratios. <br /> <br />Even Sisyphus won some perspective <br />at oscillation’s midpoint- <br />fugacious exculpation <br />at the crossroads of false hope and futility. <br /> <br />Shouldn’t there be a furrow by now, <br />some relic to this terrestrial parabola? <br /> <br />The testimony of wormwood awaits fashioning- <br />linseed oil to bring out the maple striping, <br />carved and hollowed and fitted to blue-steel; <br />flint, powder, and a willing doxology. <br /> <br />Instead, there is straining without release. <br />Supplications pour down my back like sand down a rock-face, <br />each returning, exiguous grain charged with <br />indifference perceived as malice, or perverse delight. <br /> <br />Why do the feet move? <br />They are not my own. <br /> <br />Somebody shake the cage already! <br />The hamster is dead, and that squeak you hear <br />is the ghost of entropy getting buggered <br />in the back of Homer’s van.<br /><br />metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-turn-the-world/
