A combination of forms

Wrestling with the dashboard of my car, I sometimes win. And sometimes I give up, and let go of the steering wheel, at least mentally, and hope that the cell phone rings. But even if that doesn't work, I am certainly aware of the fact that I am moving forward.

Because any idiot knows that's a given.

The engine whines, humms, screeches a bit off, but keeps going. The trees pass by in a shower of green that is bright in the evening light. Up and down, over and out, my stomach slightly jiggles from the turns and curves of this ancient road now covered in asphalt.

Wrestling with the bed sheet cover is even harder. Its a metal blanket that won't come off even though I am entirely convinced in my own mind that it is the morning. The steel trap is also only in my mind, a brain that grows soft and dull from the hours of monotony of every day. The tan walls are hollow, the taste of toothpaste a welcome respite, but not entirely satisfying.

This is how the world ends --
The world doesn't have to end.
The paint on my walls, a dark tan,
Is not necessarily the way the painter designed it to
present itself.
And if I prize my own convoluted, diverted and at times preposterous ideas --
at least have the courage to submit that I
shouldn't look at myself with
less than a solid dose of the water of exacting precision, namely,
the fear of God.

Resistance becomes only the latest option, prized
mostly because of its shiny candy-coated wrapper.
Its as much a sell out to deck yourself with the marginal charms of a One
bracelet as it is to wear the choking dark tie of a man-who-drives-to-work.
Get on, get going, you weren't saved to languish, melt and then die in a dark hole at the pit you dug inside
your unfortunately malnourished soul.