My tears are real,
not literary.
My faith is broken with dread.
The words of my catastrophe
are scattered.
It’s depressing.
I have been thoroughly spoiled
by phantasmal metaphysics.
I think I’m going to lick
an ice cream cone and look
sinister.
Tell everyone I’ve lied to,
which is everyone,
that henceforth
I will judge life,
and the truth,
by my digestive system.
The rate of my heartbeat,
my blood pressure reading,
and from a collection of these
and other tea leaves
determine the state of things.
What’s become of my boy
and the things he learned at school,
and why
the center of life
is a relative place,
always at the crossroads
of a beginning,
and never better than that.