“Step it up! ” my passengers intone.
“We’ve places to go.”
Head down. Jaw locked.
It isn’t supposed to work this way-
no fulcrum to bear against,
and there’s the matter of weight ratios.
Even Sisyphus won some perspective
at oscillation’s midpoint-
fugacious exculpation
at the crossroads of false hope and futility.
Shouldn’t there be a furrow by now,
some relic to this terrestrial parabola?
The testimony of wormwood awaits fashioning-
linseed oil to bring out the maple striping,
carved and hollowed and fitted to blue-steel;
flint, powder, and a willing doxology.
Instead, there is straining without release.
Supplications pour down my back like sand down a rock-face,
each returning, exiguous grain charged with
indifference perceived as malice, or perverse delight.
Why do the feet move?
They are not my own.
Somebody shake the cage already!
The hamster is dead, and that squeak you hear
is the ghost of entropy getting buggered
in the back of Homer’s van.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-turn-the-world/
