Lucid Lacerations

I suffer an open wound somewhere in my being,

ground into glass, lacerating lucidity.

Down supermarket aisles dull-eyed and aching

as daily endless offices spill into vacant villains

like sloven doped up stooges running roughshod unrelenting.

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Lactose intolerant demons climb

from intestine to my brain stem, driving

incandescent fever visions of SEPTA trolley greasy wheels

where sickly souls go diving into

muddy puddle storm drains unwanted and unseen.

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A mad man is simply he

who's bled the gauze of avarice from his eyes;

is simply she

who's finally broken her baggage, tossing sad to the wind.

Oh how free the lunatic fringe truly is,

straitjacket laced clozapine blues not withstanding.

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Alas, I'm infinitely sound of mind in all the wrong ways

despite the malpractice I preach

alone to my congregation of dying furniture and home electronics;

this will be forgiven, I pray,

lest a yard sale see them banished as inanimate nonbelievers.

And through the heart of every

never quite psychotic night,

a sleepless dancing cavalcade haunts my graceful failures.

Or is it simply failed grace they taunt to all but tearing numb?

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Through it all I smile past teeth

ground down from caramel caffeine jitters,

count my lucky stars for what I have,

and vow again this year

to find out just what that might be.

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Unless, that is, there's something

especially good on the tube.

Next year then?

For sure.