March 26, 2014
The nauseating nature of the ground I walk on
brings me back repeatedly to the hopeless
machine clatter and badly cut card shoes
in this windowless, timeless, voluntary jail
filled with button smashing,
pocket thinning inmates trying to escape reality,
and I am one of them.
I’ll free my family after this run.
Can’t figure out which is more damning to my health:
Vice inviting easy money won
madness reinstating hard earned cash lost.
Enticing repetitive patterns bring me back,
hazy red smiles, a fictitious play of compliments
take me there and back.
I’ll free my family next time.
I lay back exhaling cancerous mist,
a chest cavity spoiling passing of
time that shortens the very thing
it so miserably attempts to pass,
recursive, repetitive, singularity.
I will never free my family,
not here at least.