13
the rooms are numbered 12
then 14
because
the numerical stigmata
like American pride
is firmly in place
heroically solved
for the pop simpletons
the religious flamethrowers
and the skeptical drum beat
pounds pounds pounds
they feel safe
from the morally hoodwinked
and i wonder myself sometimes
if i'm hoodwinked enough to fight them off
in the middle of the night
when they come down the stairs
slowly
drenched in moonlight
the dull deliberate
thunk
thunk
thunk
of a dragged axe in tow
nothing i say to you
gets through
we fight the differences
squint to see the truths in our own light
because what we know
is the only thing
aside from our dreams
that puts air in our lungs
and keeps the shotguns pointed away from the vital parts
the distractions don't make it seem
as desperate as it really is
desperate like trying to dig holes
in wet sand
near ocean water
i shut the lights
trapped between not caring
and wanting to find
a permanent sleep
in room 13
it ends like it always ends
with you
and we are all
born
to
lose.
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