Medicated

Each day, near seven, I 
Crash. I plummet like a fork,
A gargantua robed in brass and
Bone. The trail is black, I do not
Know of a home. 

So I hit the plastic sea with a scowl.
My velocity, a handicap as

I sink, I sink; not a thousand but a 
Billion leagues down, to the room where
I can do nothing. Nothing but think.

I am sick to death of chemicals. 
Ovoid vectors tinkling down the 
Chimney of my throat. I can hardly 
Stand to lift my mitt to deposit - is

This my hand? No, a mechanic’s

Sweat pearls. They cause this

Diagonal landing, a

Warranty to dive deeper each time.
They hurt me when I hit. Which came
First? They hurt me but they bless.

Symbiosis in a mangled dress.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH