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Programmed for Success

It’s never the same ground when I look down. Screams, yells, dirty knees, chips of dust and nests of bees, perpendicular jars of parallel hells a distant call to pitiful me. A part of me wants to flee. I say no, it’s a devastating blow, and the me retreats a little bit; a recurring jest, a damning skit. I look up. Tracing lines in the soilscape, amid the coiling purple and wiffle bat grey, eyes vacant feast on a world that lay, so close and oh so comatose, as a dying man, ambitious and deluded, mumbling words of an immortal. For this sick trick, time has slipped. But the soil kicks as the fault lines rip, and every erratic set of stares too unlate to be an evacuee, all look desperately for an escape. Me.
That’s why it’s never the same ground when I look down. ‘Cause It’s always the same frown when I look up. Always the same hick town when I wrestle the chance to look around. Me, he objects, he rejects, but I know better. I’m stronger than me. Because I’m a druid. Aged, fleetfoot and fluid.
Preserved like and as in a jam.
But me, what a scam. They never told me what an analysis was. Just appeared, flickered and teared, a word who begged to be feared. SEARED; like a brand, into every raised hand that politely inquired all but a smile they never suspected, however funded and tired, worn like a badge on the brains that have never reflected. Weird.
The palms are awkward like a sheep, washed and just sheared. And weird.
I tell me my metaphors are tripping over themselves. Me myself can’t stand I, he’s just like the tracing lines, running and playing, none of them going and none of them staying!
There’s a primordial struggle, whipping and braying. The reins crack down, I’m back in control. Don’t worry, I’m okay.
It’s never the same ground as I keep my virile eyes a long ways down. Once a blunderous thunder, now a faint charge, dreams torn asunder.
But there is happiness. I’ve succeeded.

Written by:
17 May 2008

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