words

how hot is your little sun,
how bright can it get?

when they follow my eyes
i look upon myself as a king,
a great warrior of hearts
and when they turn away
i see only shame and mutant fatigue,
a false prophet, a coward.

i sit in a tiny room
claustrophobic against my possessions
and i think only of their eyes,
their wandering sensibility,
their pictureframe arrhythmia
and i do this because i must.

i fashion a sun dial
from liquor bottles
and count down the evening
where it is acceptable
to drink like an old poet
of failed philosophy
and terrifying, changing industry.

drones forever separate
this moment from the next
and by god i will burn in hell
for every minute after
if that is what it takes
to gather some substance from this,
this beleaguered method
of change through persistence.

-S.C. Martinez