Like An Upside Down Lawn Mower

sometimes I can feel my hands
slipping off the handle,
and my fingers snapping off the steel bar
one by one,
each with a sweaty squeak.

and yet EVEN THEN...
there in the throes of lunacy,
i cannot shake the feeling
that i'll never find the ground under my feet,
because i've never been grounded to begin with.

i have no idea what the ground feels like.

sometimes I wish my mind was less cluttered,
and I was just a big ol'
PAUNCHY SQUIRREL

with only one goal pounding through my being:

COLLECT MOUTH-WATERING ACORNS.

ahhhh, to wake up
wanting ACORNS and ONLY ACORNS
like fat kids
want butter beans.

wait...

scratch that.

not butter beans.

like fat kids want
MARSH MELLOW DINOSAUR EGGS.

ahh yes, to surrender to instinct completely.

the equanimity
of a pitch black mind
following
the bolt pistol.

i suppose even squirrels are
stuck with the mind mess, though.

they don't just think about acorns.

no ma'am.
that's only a romantic cavity we artists
desperately WANT squirrels to FILL.

The harsh reality of the world is:
Squirrels are NOT cartoons.

They are not simple and innocent.

no ma'am.
squirrels attack old people and children
and violently fuck everything they see.

(even dirty, old, grey shoes by the side of the road,
covered in dryer lint).

squirrels zip around like
retards on acid,
constantly reacting
to every jerk of the world.

sadly, they too have hard boiled eyes
and wet-towel-minds,
rigged with springs,
taut with tension,

and filled with triggers, cyphers,
and empty actions
they will never understand.