stillfugue

On this Friday, I feel the skates, the slicing edges,
sloppy beard growth in yellows,
blue and red painted lines of sporting
steer me, fear being loud.
A skeletal, barbed-wire fence tears through me,
making me choose between vague western happiness
and purple vegetables that paint me as a ruined human,
with thin paper bags hanging on my skin,
groaning with cat-like yawls
showing the world my fullness of sin,
all of my wrongs, growing fingers of terrible sewage,
telling all who swim in the ice that my core is rotten,
that I am not all human, that I should be buried
under the boulders that smile while plunging
toward the mountain highway
with a short retaining wall that retains nothing.