My Soul May Be An Enigma, But My Veins Are Like Barbed Wire
by Heath Ison
My soul may be an enigma…
whispering, faintly, it only tunes to static.
I tend to create poetry driving in my car with
the fear of dazing off into oncoming traffic, or
with the fear of hitting a cracked-out suicidal hobo.
Either or I would claim both as a rewarding
accomplishment to say I have reached
a new transcendental profoundness.
Sidereal eyes peek into cosmic closets.
I saw a Jesus in there with an upside-down
frown and he was outfitting a mannequin with
a pink bow tie.
Your tongues taste like Jolly Ranchers and
you are all colorfully rotoscoped.
Finally, THE PEOPLE ARE BEAUTIFUL AGAIN.
…but my veins are like barbed-wire.
You messaged me today.
Yes, I know I’m a worthless human being.
Hey, I know I’m a piece of shit, so no need
to remind me as far as that goes.
I’d just as soon count my cancers backwards
on my fingers than to be murdered softly
I run like a Flock of Seagulls, but
those tyrannical beasts outfitted in black
business suits still bombard me. They
ravage me politely, laugh, and then
strut away while tossing me a white
t-shirt with black printed words that
say, Paranoid Much?