the dusty passage
next to the washing machine
bustling between four and five pm
when the addicts converge
lift a tin pop a lid
fill their bowls
and wander off
to get a buttery high
never embarrassed
to leave evidence
of their addiction
yellowed crockery
salt spray on the counter
greasy napkin gleaming chin
there are some things
where I lack guilt
in being guilty
today the clouds are ice flows in an artic blue ocean steppingstones my mind skips over trying not to fall in not as slow as a polar bear would creep across the sky hunting for its thing in another wo
day is obstacles duties hustle mental mazes sensual skirmishes it is here and now front and center talk and listen running with the light hiding in shadow night is full of emptiness days of swallowe
if you’re able-bodied on a boat with oars would you help paddle to reach land? this world is a sinking ship desperate to find safe harbor and frankly I doubt we’ll make it without all hands on deck ba