OK Trope Net

The anagram for
anger is range- the span of
space its hands can touch,
from my
toes to lungs,

cardiovascular
clusterfuck as I buckle and
yell,
struggle to spell

claustrophobia without
the inevitable strobe lights
in my head.

Now, the politics of this
thing have
made me a bit of
a prick,
boa constrictor
suffocating
the bigger picture.

I’m running a Roman Hat
(marathon, drat!) and
there’s no gin prints
(fingerprints? oh, wait,
I meant a
fucking sprint)
to the end.

Why do I keep
doing that?

If I want to win the
man-versus
-nature aspect of
this race, the spit of
human spirit
dripping down my
face,

I’ve got to be the
Keno Potter, the
retcons I’ve
fostered to rise above
copper pipe
meals alone in
the dark, trying to
ballpark how long
before the footsteps
above let me out.

I’ve got to apply it
to foot-in
mouth syndromes my fellow
men are known
for,

they allow to expand
like the spores of
a fungus
ten or twenty times in
a given conversation.

And if the same words that can
win a woman’s heart are the
same words that
could start
world wars,
we need only need
answers both abrasive enough but
from a place of love
to sign us
a peace accord.

Then again, maybe
I only wrote this because
I was bored.

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4 thoughts on “OK Trope Net

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