Sometimes just saying good-night would be enough
to stave off the panging alone,
a faint surmising right before the day's close
to make it seem all worth it, and then
tomorrow you won't be opposed
to rising again.
Then you find
the air is still still, the bed quite chilled, and the dust
wafts orange through invading construction lights.
And you'll toss,
tangled up in dry smelly sheets, despite the snort of Valium
swimming through your blood,
the shots of Jack swilling in your gut.
You'll think about your mother and how she worrying as she greys.
You'll think about the one that got away with such a smooth face.
You are no savior, no saint, no prophet, no prodigy, no faces to greet, no lambs lay at your feet, no beach to walk on, no hair to grow long, no charm, no charisma, no chance, no choice
but to let space take over -
the swarm of green gases and heaps of stars -
you swallow it all up and go to space
in that dreadful mind of yours that only moves to displace
the harmony it feels in most minds around it
because it's their world and it doesn't make sense.
Don't get walked on you say to yourself but it is so hard
with unfortunate beings making your unfortunates so big and bright.