The haze in my eyes
is like the waves in the sky
lapping at the scraper tops
bouncing the 757 like a leaf till the pressure drops.
My arm twitches in the cuff,
I’ve had enough.
Is my systolic symbolic of the quiver in my eye?
That twinkling black, ‘cause I know I’ll never die
a bloody, screaming death, my last breath a war-cry
the poor guy I’m crushing under my heel
clawing up through the rubber, up through the soul
his death rattle choked with pieces of my bleeding insanity
my battle thesis is a screaming calamity.

But no,
I’m stuck in my dank tomb with beer cans and numb hands.
It’s a crypt or a womb.
The T.V. guards the door from howling nightmares,
I get assailed only by Friends and Happy Days,
and rot away from this world you dreamed
and I built out of clay.