Looking at the serrated edges of steel; my freedom
a few inches away from the throbbing vein, I
frame the utopia that rests
on the fabled other side.
Like a rusty machine that chugs,
does its work, albeit with loud grumble,
I’ve been slowly diluting the poison in the air
inside my blood. Letting the afraid,
the dumb, the lewd, the diplomatic,
the ones with white masks and no
face at all,
hug me and tell me I’m their sibling.
Because I’m Bukowski’s third monkey;
losing all of my mind
and melting away my soul,