words

blur corridor,
i got a sense of direction
that’s wrong,
all wrong this life’s moral compass
spinning like a mad clock
in the grips of a speed fit,
dead friends back to life
shake their heads disapprovingly
and the past is present again
in wine bottles and cardboard containers,
ashtrays in variable forms
and the dull light of poverty,
smoke shadows in the ceiling fan
and karma coming fast
i’ve seen approaching for miles,
people don’t like my face
and my eyes are too strong
so they push me away
or maybe i push them away
for being too weak,
i can’t sleep in this phase
wearing this sheet
at 25 years an hour,
doesn’t matter,
doesn’t matter,
the words fly past
with hummingbird wings
and find a more suitable host
to nurture their short life spans.

-S.C. Martinez