On occasion

Sometimes bad luck comes by in buckets on the back
Of heavy transport trucks, with enough horse power
To make trains look like children carrying backpacks.
Sometimes my hands run on my face for hours
And I can’t tell the passing of the time,
And I can’t well start up these rusty gears
To trivialize thoughts and make them rhyme.
Sometimes I shudder when I count my years,
Measuring life by lousy paradigms;
Life as a marathon of facing fears,
Where my spleen hurts and I’ve fallen behind.
So now life is a struggle to get back in line
With no sense of direction. A bad joke. Perverse.
I stare at what I want to be like mirrors in reverse.
Sometimes I see there’s always something worse,
Like how sometimes my mood swings something worse
Than small bands playing standards out of tune
Then claiming they had no time to rehearse (!).
Sometimes I stare out to the moon,
Full as the glass half I refuse to see,
And freezing on the balcony, I play the loon
Until it sets across the street, behind a block,
And I’m left counting dim stars piercing through the smog.
And sometimes I wish I wasn’t blind to beauty
That I could capture it and lay it down in words
And throw it at the world, like freeing birds
To fly as flawless bastions of hope through the absurd.


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