Why does it go on
and attach itself as if it were me?
Am I the bystander
of so called innocent cause?
Am I the demonic shadow
casting my form?
Why are my questions
howled yet denied?
Am I an invisible phone booth
of presence
that is crowded around
by faces full of wide eyes?
Everything looked at
is eventually ooze.
Even my grip is becoming
just a liquefied grasp.
That I hurt only seems
to be a bobbing to float.
What is in this bowl
that soaks me away?
Why is my heart
without boundaries and throb?
Why does this collective
weigh as my feel?
I keep waiting for this coma
of macabre animation to subside,
for a sense of containment
to represent me as my stand.
I keep waiting for all these fluids
pouring through me to dry away
and for this adrenal overdrive
to get out this body
as only my chauffeur.
And for him to curse me
under his breath
while kicking all the tires,
slamming the driver side door
then pissing into the gas tank.
Only then, for him,
walking gleefully away,
tossing keys and gas cover cap
over his brooding shoulder
into the four winds
now swirling into a void.
Who is at gut of these feelings?
Who is the fulcrum
of this teeter-tooter
with both sides always bent down?
Who is the anvil that pings
stricken as my soul?
Why is collision
now a form of embrace
and consternation
some sort of wry smile?
When did disturbing
become my calm
and how did this thunderous phrase
"get over it"
become my koan?
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