My Soul May Be An Enigma, But My Veins Are Like Barbed Wire
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?
Heath Ison’s poetry/fiction can be found at Screaming Seahorse, New Wave Vomit, and forthcoming on Metazen. Heath knows the game is rigged but figures you can’t win if you don’t play. Avoid him inside The GENESIS of USELESSNESS.