By Steve Grogan
Starting to get sick of this:
myself, my attempts to survive.
I will regress, I will rebel,
stomping my way to a heart attack.
This is all I need.
This is all I forget.
In the mirror you can measure how quickly I fall.
Mirrors reveal everything.
Mirrors indicate if Earth really revolves.
Tongues unmask the truth as well.
Does your skin really taste like iron,
or is it salt,
or is it mercury,
or is it blasphemy?
I awaken to find beauty
in every field of science,
in every sarcastic remark.
Today is death.
Yesterday was heaven,
hidden under glass domes.
Sick of playing guessing games,
sick of painting the sidewalks, sky, and trees.
Use these mental ornaments
to decorate my chest instead.
Cover my windows with lights and bourbon.
You spilled your drink two hours ago.
I think you fell asleep
and never woke up
and never felt a thing.
Steve Grogan is from the often-filmed city of Troy, NY. He’s been writing for over 30 years. His work has been published in several magazines and ezines. His biggest influences are Phillip K. Dick, William S. Burroughs, and Thomas Pynchon.
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