a candle

it's a candle, dammit,
and it has a wick,
surrounded by wax,
and if you are rich,
maybe a color is not
what it lacks,
but it is still just
a candle:
and it does not fucking matter
what you think of it:
from the moment that you pop out,
wet, weary, squeezed, teary,
gasping for air,
that fucking wick is lit,
and your life is your life
whatever you and the world
make of it;
whatever you break of it,
whatever the world freaks of it,
whatfuckingever either you or
the world fucking makes of it,
or takes away from it,
simple addition and subtraction,
simple addiction and detraction,
simple stimulus and reaction,
and you struggle and you sneeze
and you spend a lot of time
skinning your knees,
and then all of a sudden,
years pass, and tears gas
up your eyes, and you realize
that you have been fed
a shitload ration of complete
lies, and now
you are grown up
(whatever the hell that means),
and you finally discover that
the way you walk depends
on how much the winds of life
make you lean, and which way,
left or right,
north or south,
east or west,
and with all the rest of the poor,
sorry, misguided masses,
you try your best to make
educated guesses
as to where to go,
what to do,
as you desperately try to find out
who the hell are you;
and boy oh boy,
if you had realized,
years ago, how much of this shit
was bullshit,
how much better you could do
now, with eyes wide open,
with the code broken;
and you struggle, and you wheeze,
and spend most of your time on your knees,
not praying to some concept,
but praying for release,
and you find none,
and the story is nearly done,
and you realize that no one
has won, no one is redone:
more terror in the mirror,
and the total absence of sun,
it strikes so hollow, even as
you run, you shake and you
quake, looking at the barrel
of a gun, and then you know,
you know for sure, that there
is no cure for the human condition,
it was always a mission
from which no one returns;
so don't just sit there in a corner,
and growl,
stand up on your hind legs, and

February 14, 2010, in memory of Allen Ginsberg, one of the first to help me see. I love you, man. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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