Libra

Am I the cure or am I the disease:

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim to have pontifical powers:
Significant of ritualistic satire;

Am I your cure: your saving Grace
And your saving face – but you say
No: CuZ change is pain and pain
Is death …
But pain is life and life is … it
I counter and claim, as truth;

Am I your disease: your pain
Down your back and the
Shaking through your veins – but
You say no: CuZ the pain is not real,
The shakes mere flits of mind:
Like rings on a midsummer lake
Above the circle of life:
A balance to be kept;

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim have significant powers
Over life and death, cure and
Disease; I find that equilibrium
All too hard to balance,
All too hard to fault,
All too … much
Satire.

Snakes

Venom and spitting / your snakeskin slithers as self-conscious dithering wreaks, unleashes, and vents / nothing. / NoThing will ever convince or convey further engagement of two split tongues intertwined / the storm rages on / the wound of ages still festering / with will gone and without dreams / what will a future of word spitting and venom drinking ever achieve / in the world of men / and snakes.

Part of me knows the truth:
The second floor flooring
Won’t collapse; yet a part of me
Knows the truth: any day now. 

Part of me knows the truth:
The roof won’t dislodge and land
In my immaculate garden; yet
A part of me knows, and panics
Every time the wind blows. 

Part of me knows the truth:
The world will not end 
Before my time is up; yet a part
Of me, the self, disconnected 
From the world of men, knows
The world will end
Before my time. 

Part of me knows the truth:
There is no truth, this is only
Me in a state of pretend 
Paranoia.

We joked of men coming, 
Of men with purpose,
Of men bringing white jackets
With extra long sleeves. 

We joked of men coming, 
Of men with stern faces,
Of men in white coats coming
To lock me up. 

We joked of men coming,
Of men with hateful eyes,
Of men sent to incarcerate
The one true self. 

We joked once long ago, voices 
In unison laughing at the prospect 
Of men coming for me, me, me
But their gods chose my final frock:
A white jacket with extra long sleeves.