Lie in wait, a book in your face,
if you’re lucky you can smell
the dusty bottle of amber liquid,
the one with hints of cinnamon
and stale coffee.

Mark time in place—interrupted—by
cleverly poisoned conversations,
confidently stroked by the more intelligent
beings in the other room, wiser still,
than your voice.

Spill your breath, a mountain to raise,
for a flat road leads one only
straight through to the ordinary, a
suffocated life, and tastes of nothing but
lonely, stale crackers.

Leave life in the waste, that tree full
of spider monkeys, spinning webs spun
of glisten and air, thin as smoky pipe and
trussed with the gelded lies that hide beneath
their placating words.

And instead, try listening to your own.

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