Mr. Mercedes

Kind of like a needle, pinned in my side,
twisting itself around in writhing motions,
While I grasp it and hope it’s not my appendix
swelling up to twice it’s size.

Kind of like a chain-linked fence,
Just short enough to let the maniacs in,
Just tall enough to keep the neighbors out.
Always standing there ministering to the
refuges that look upon you with the
eyes of a servant,
as you tell them that they’re not as good as you.

Kind of like the food chain of society, measuring
Success by who has the biggest secrets to hide.
Pointing across the road to the beggar,
not saying (but certainly thinking) that he’s
The one responsible for our damn economy.

Peering through the glass window,
a real life out-of-body-experience,
waving to the wan and fragile man in the
plastic chair, you know can’t see you.
Watching him as he buttons down his shirt,
ties his shoes, and brushes through his balding hair
with his fingers.
Wishing you could tell him that it’s okay,
that the world’s still spinning.
But you’re horrible at lying.

It’s not okay.

Opening the bag of Dorito potato chips,
only to discover that the bag's half empty.
You always knew the government was ripping you off.

Writing poems in second person,
though you know they should be written in first.
Someone somewhere, told you once,
that it’s not good to use ‘you’.

(but you’re too clever to take advice)

Sticking note cards on every mirror,
tying strings on every finger.
By now you’ve forgotten what you
Were trying to remind yourself to do this morning.
Or night?

Killing two birds with one stone,
Really it’s more like ten.
Once reality sinks in, that this is wrong,
It’ll be too late.

Hooked on sobs and sad sedatives,
Anything that will help you sleep.
You’re eyes are drying, your pores are oozing
With yellow puss.

Sick songs about Satan slicing,
Six-six-six with skates and scalpels.
Signing autographs and singing anthems
Through puzzled airwaves.

The telepathy isn’t strong enough yet.

Looking at old receipts and repeating security numbers,
Making up recipes as you go along.
Mixing up chemicals, you pray don’t explode,
When forced together.

Sawing sounds from serpents’ sanctums,
I wonder why autumn ends in n.
A silent letter, like a missing variable,
You need to win the game.

-Solve

My head is pregnant with lies,
stringing them together like
bulbs on a Christmas tree.
I intertwine the stories and create a biography,
that begins with three dots.
…

(there’s that first person thing)

Graphing points and plotting numbers,
Echoing the voices of famous people.
‘Assume makes an ass out of you and me’.
Who said that?

Death comes knocking, yes he does.
Walking past me to and fro.
I dare not ask him who he wants,
I read his mind, I do not kn-

Kind of like a fortune cookie,
the white strip of paper reading “someone’s watching”.
And while you’ve never believed in signs or psychics,
You sleep with a gun, just in case.


No More Sedatives.