Mantras

It’s the hole, stupid.
The black hole of
something, the dark show of
nothing. The place where
nothing grows, but something
slithers, simmers, fizzes in the corner.
It’s the middle, stupid.
The beginning was spectacular,
who else came into this world,
and not wail their eyes out, set lungs on fire?
The end was quiet, all sounds silenced.
Maybe a cry or two, from the edge of the pew,
if no one really knew the dark sins you’ve brewed.

It’s the empty, stupid, the long tunnel
where no sun peers at the end.
It’s the pain, stupid,
if you don’t bear it, who else should?
The self-imposed outside-looking-in-
Listen to the echoes inside your body when
there’s only you residing.

It’s the chaos, stupid,
as all change is. Nothing could
stop it, all the atoms loosening.
Ride along, stupid. Get on that
bucking horse, flying through the town –

Inhale the air, stale like an old cigar,
stale like this body, stale like this life.

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