Just discovered this awful old poem in a notebook. I probably wrote it at a slow farmers' market, hah.
The Human Condition
rain falling like black leather,
A smitten fool counts his change,
Blood between his fingernails,
A thesis hanging on his doorway.
"What do you smell?
What seems to be on the wind,
Repeating its name like an epitaph,
The last chapter of a banned book?"
He doesn't know; what can you know,
Standing in the fetal position,
Hunched over like a man taking his last breath?
Love is the grease that sticks in his teeth,
Love is the weight that stoops his shoulders,
Love sits in his chest like an atom bomb.
The sky changes, its mood as sour as beer.
"What do you feed a dying man?
The same gruel you feed everyone else."
Who is this stranger speaking to the wind,
This wretch haunting alcoves, smoking steam,
Making plans that will never materialize?
He is you or me; he is just a vessel,
A trick played by a bad magician,
A rock that moves and speaks.
You strike anything enough,
It will crumble.