Duct tape and Backhoes

I’m suppose to be
a writer

But.

Sometimes I wrap wire
Around my throat and
Glue my fingertips to
The wall

Because

My heart is too busy
Timing out a
Stuttering staccato rhythm
through its demented pathways.
And digging out graveyards
For half-eaten
Worm-filled emotions
Left rotting along the
Roadside to be anything but
Unintelligble.

Its blue veined white skin
And callused aorta valves that burn
In the shadow of sunwashed
Dreams and other brilliant things.
And it is quietly letting
Each bloody cell telling it to livelivelive,
Leak through these walls

And

Crawl down grey and
Brown stained steps in
Tribute to Mayan Gods
And sputter into these lungs
With a sick splattercough of die

.

But.

.

It forgets
The handiness of
Duct tape and backhoes
And that the Mayans died long ago.

That rotten is just another
Word for, I’ll grow back more beautiful and that
Graveyards are gardens
Of touch-the-sky sunflowers
And shadow-cling ivy and
gone-lovin-come-back-later roses.

And that sunwashed shadows
Are just pooling saliva backwash
Of eatyoualive protein enzymes.

_{And that it’ll never be able
To stop.
This.
Now.}