Wednesday Morning - Dustin Vado
Groans of another man's release creep under stalls charring porcelain,
I pray for no blood after smokes before coffee,
the never breakfast
after pissing in sun's daisies while the moon watched;
I am used to it.
Driving in rain slipped between truck and grace
swerving through zombie brothers,
sisters who set their cubs aside for hours while they
tend to their old young,
and the children who are falling out of sympathy
with youth and toys,
we all dream of home when we are jacked into ports;
we are used to it.
My siblings don't always wake alone
but feel it in cold sweat of work.
I am no longer half their age,
closer to their grave than my own destiny.
I dream of what it should be,
a friend in nightmares that sweats icicles
jumping at coins falling from shower heads like
acid reflux blizzards,
our faces burned, leathery and gaunt
imagine what it means to be
used by it, by all,
by any and by many
invisible souls.
The clock keeps ticking, and when its battery dies, there is another
keeping time in death’s place while the living frolic like ignorant mares
in line at the glue mill for their repurposing
to sticky uses.
I no longer cough when dragging fumes from the mill,
they taste like peppers
sprouted from the ring of a bell in a crimson tower watching mares
march in step with the snow that powders their faces,
I got used to it.
I pray for no blood after smokes before coffee,
the never breakfast
after pissing in sun's daisies while the moon watched;
I am used to it.
Driving in rain slipped between truck and grace
swerving through zombie brothers,
sisters who set their cubs aside for hours while they
tend to their old young,
and the children who are falling out of sympathy
with youth and toys,
we all dream of home when we are jacked into ports;
we are used to it.
My siblings don't always wake alone
but feel it in cold sweat of work.
I am no longer half their age,
closer to their grave than my own destiny.
I dream of what it should be,
a friend in nightmares that sweats icicles
jumping at coins falling from shower heads like
acid reflux blizzards,
our faces burned, leathery and gaunt
imagine what it means to be
used by it, by all,
by any and by many
invisible souls.
The clock keeps ticking, and when its battery dies, there is another
keeping time in death’s place while the living frolic like ignorant mares
in line at the glue mill for their repurposing
to sticky uses.
I no longer cough when dragging fumes from the mill,
they taste like peppers
sprouted from the ring of a bell in a crimson tower watching mares
march in step with the snow that powders their faces,
I got used to it.