Poem-A-Day: Day 150

Skip to My Lose

Skip it,
they say.
It’s not important right now
because there is something else
that I could be doing:
busting my face open with a brick
for instance,
or shaving my flesh off
one layer at a time
until I have a pound;
the most common unit
in weights and measures.

Desert it,
they say.
There is nothing worse,
than doting on failure,
because it’s ridiculous:
failing consistently, constantly,
at least there is some constant,
or flailing majestically over the edge
of a waterfall,
falling into some white-capped madness
that envelopes the soul;
the most common unity
in waits and pleasures.

Fuck it,
they say.
Don’t bother with it
because there isn’t anything in it,
and there may have never been
anything worth doing:
laughing hysterically, historically
speaking to the ghosts and ghasts
of past and present,
or palling around with the ghouls
of my underbelly,
undressing my self,
the most common untying
in hates and pressures.