Goldrush Acid Meltdown

When I wrote this I was on a goldrush acid meltdown.
Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to ‘cause I do.
It’s not as if the world twisted itself like a wet dishtowel all on its own.
It didn’t and neither did you.
Poetry is like that sometimes.

When I wrote that I was on an upswing desert slip ‘n slide.
Chance meetings happen according to procedure.
But I guess you already knew that ‘cause you’re here.
Paying a bit more notice would have been in order.
Too much attention to distraction and none at all to the slow burn.

But, as I said, I was on a Machiavellian late night talk show when I wrote this.
Wrung out and all that’s left is insincerity.
How could it happen that I’m so unconcerned even when I am so aware?
You knew the cost right up front and you smiled anyway.
Reality is like that sometimes.

When I wrote that I was on a nationalistic huntdown light brigade.
Brutality is often cheaper than governance.
The standard perpetuates the myth that it’s not.
You made us all think you didn’t know when you did.
Now we’re here and you’re still here and then what?

Of course, when I wrote this I was on an online dating trampoline.
Sex is sometimes more fun than activism.
So many people arguing semantics over agenda.
Over and over—overpopulating the margins.
Poetry is like that sometimes.