two/eight/eleven

with cup of coffee in hand
i’m already searching for ways to desert
my plan
it didn’t match up to ideals in my head
like the withered orchid (covered with segmented ants)
prostrate on the countertop (beside my keys)
wishing for soil
but i took it inside
to offer me its scent
at my command

dear God
jumpbox me grace
or lay me on top
of a stretcher with handles attached
and carry me down
to the prophet in town
when you find that it’s packed
tear open the roof
and hurl me down
before the man
that makes good wine
thirteen point five
at least
who saves the best for last
and knows how to deal with lameness

it’s not that I’ve begun numbering my days
rather that I’m sitting thick in malaise
and it’s always in tomorrow’s paper
which I received again
today (upon first waking)
and fear I’ve got to catch a train
that’ll lead me
and dump me
closer to the truth
than any route i choose on whim
and con off as the result of prayer
to dear God