Waiting For Inspiration

Spigot wide open.

Clockwise all the way.

A lefty loosy ink hydrant to extinguish this burn at any moment now.

 

Five thousand pound press.

My palm the definition of flat,

primed to stamp out metaphors one and then one and then one.

 

Whorish woman

blows on the dice.

I want to win at crap so bad, and God I hope she’s really a whore.

 

Straight-jacketed lunatic

who hasn’t seen the moon in years

hears “you can go now” and awaits the grand unbuckling.

 

Veteran brick layer,

trowel scraped to a satin finish,

ready to work off the morning chill and make another good neighbor.

 

I’ve stopped by woods,

and my pine rash is flaring.

I contort to reach my midspine to scratch till I bleed, eyes rolling.

 

Preacher with the diamond watch

and diamond church and diamond eyes

that promise ten thousand shivering hopefuls their diamond blanket.

 

My eyes have seen the glory

of all the various distances,

seeking the angle that triggers memory, or even lie would do.

 

I’ve walked through the Valley

of the Shadow of Doubt

and was scared shitless, cried for my mommy, for Thou art a mystery to me.

 

But I’m in a full-body cast

and can’t reach the remote.

I’ve got nothing to do but this.  And I’ve got all day.

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