After Oasis

Stress is but
the jester, yesteryear artifacts
carried on your back to
ward oasis,

its humour
awkward,
occasionally racist,

greeting all
the headcases in
your path
who tell you there’s
no water within
a thousand miles.

If I’m the only mental
patient among
us, then,
why did you
all consent to
die like men for folly?

Think I hear your
hallucinations calling-
that Kool-Aid must be
spiked with
some kind of toxicology
to make such
pretty waves.

(“You have no one but yourself to blame. After all, who agrees to walk forty nights across the desert in search of water that lies the other way?”)

There’s some scary shit
in that
decision-making process
I think we might
have changed if

part of us wasn’t
willing to risk
certain death
and dehydration to prove
it could be done.

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2 thoughts on “After Oasis

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