Biting the regression, a teething ring, hearing echoes of
nowhere, hollowed out for advancement, blind as Oedipus,
ekeing out a living on charity, despite my best efforts, or
so I am told. Someday, this losing streak will be skidding
like a car on an icy road, out of control, faster than perception,
faster even than being assaulted with craving the life I’ve
never known and consuming it wholesale. After all the
trouble I’ve gone to in order to move forward, growing
was an indulgence, a gracious parting of the ways with
all those who did me wrong. It was never easy to proceed
through confusion when hopes and dreams cluttered all
my thinking and wanting. Now that I’ve been robbed of
any form of luxury, there should be a settlement of the
positive and negative, a christening, a saintly dying to belong.
I have no love for living with contemptuous learning that
these investments and inventories were wasted all along.
From self-published book of poetry, “Desperate Measures” (2012)
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