Your pulse is just a high-stakes, predatory loan, A strobe light’s frantic glitch In a collapsing pit, so leave the "shoulds" alone— Those leaden boots that make your spirit itch. Stop watering the plastic, look at the crowd: A billion ghosts all clutching Their leaking bowls, wondering (quiet or loud) Where the soup went, while they were judging. The soil is a blind and neutral gut That mulches down the CEO and the creep, The Great, the Who?, the "I-wanted-to-but." They're all the same shade of clover, six feet deep. F*ck it, the lease on your breath is ending. Don’t be pinned. Go graffiti your name on a passing gust of wind.
