Young Butter
Hey there, Butter Boy.
Another grease ball disguised as Mr. Slick.
Paddling through the melted fat
destined to clog
the highway of a healthy heart
Where are you rowing and when will you get there?
Do you just enjoy flapping your oars
in the laughable attempt
to make this rowboat fly off the float?
Is there a swirling starry night in your future,
or are you destined
for the edge of the Earth?
Will you be caught in the event horizon
of your distracting abstractions,
or sail seamlessly off the waterfall of the world,
still flapping and calling it falling with style?
Okay, Buzz.
Another lost lightyear connecting distant dots
and following rotten plots.
You might be a slave to the grave
but that’s no excuse for your course to stray.
Keeping one eye closed to life will always give you
bad death-perception.
Keep both sockets of sight
glued to the light
so that this cosmic night
can reflect its star chart into the same pupils
gifted to you from the Bastion of Blackholes
and ambassador of all things dark and silent.
It seems easy enough,
but here you are,
row rowing your boat in such concentric circles
that any passing albatross might think
you’re doing it on purpose.
That is,
until it realizes,
along with everyone else,
that you’re simply passing frantic off as fancy
like your life is a last minute thesis paper,
written in the desperate gestating hours
before the sun crowns
and shines into your face
the newborn reality
of how little time
you really have left.
.
.
.
