I am toast.
I am not a flaky, buttery croissant, ripped apart, yielding steamy scents and tasting of glory.
I am not a proud poppy seed bagel exulting in cream cheese, tasting of victory.
I am not an English muffin, with crannies pooled with melting butter, tasting of enlightenment.
I am toast.
Dry toast.
Tasing of today.
Tasting of real.
I am toast.
When the morning reminds me to,
I must confess: I’m destiny’s
manifest. Sunk like a hole-
in-one on a deserted golf course
where no one can appreciate it.
Run up a tree like a cat escaping
dogs, but now can’t get down.
My life has been a torn, stained
tapestry, that no launderers will
accept. Speaking of acceptances,
it’s time to accept the fate I’ve
refused for so long. Yes, my in-
ternal infernal clock tells me that
it’s half past a cow’s ass, and time
to cash in my chips. The problem
is, I’ve got no chips to cash in, so
it’s back to the roulette wheel for
another spin…or two, or three.
What’s done cannot be undone.
Years of electing fools and grubs
and sublimating our sense
have inured us to guilt
and tricked our consciences
so that we cannot even guess
the difference between
rats and snakes
and what lies between,
a mind-blowing stench.
