Pico’s Rowdy Slumbering

I’ve bathed beyond the borders of reason,
swallowing the water of all those soakers before me.
Rendering their sloughed off skin, venial oils and deliriums;
their cable-rhine toenail trimmings and maiden fluids, to invest
my stocks of verbal cannonballs, with powder piling high all ’round.

I’ve hole-nested in a swirl of yesterdays and aborted tomorrows,
overly concerned with shuffling chunks of memory into dioramas
of lost love, forgotten trapeze artists, and chimpanzee mobiles.
Clanging metal monkeys made of not-pain, just empty tree branches
bowing over the snore farmer’s fallow fields. Can’t sleep; can’t sleep.

Redstarts are hole-nesters, too; yet do they never think of yesterday?
And are tomorrows not a handwritten checklist or calendar square?
Naturally, they flew before me and occupy the tree as I occupy bed.
Our talons give a hard loving to the uneasy, spinning perches.
Oh, how to flee this tumble-muck tantrum; how to kneel standing?

The problem with bathing too far out, the damn drain can’t pull you free.
It sucks and sucks and sucks, swirling your toe tips into blood tornadoes.
And the trailer parks are uplifted you never knowing west from east
as the privileged compass crafters dole out shifty paths littered with hope.
The witches aren’t women with the brooms, but those with greedy hearts.

I’ve bathed beyond the borders of reason and, though I can’t tell you
the temperature of its inland waters, I can see steam on the golden horizon.
Must be the Roman bathes blooming under the hanging gardens of Success.
And as I’ve not catalyzed in their social soup since K-12, my need wanes.
So, don’t expect a fresh face, or a can-do attitude; I’ve washed those lumps
of coal clean.

K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Skateboarder | Mad Hatter


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