Creature of Habit


this is a waste:
years slip past me. time is water,
it is liquid. undetermined,
flexible in its fallible position.
you say write
and i say how much?
how many words
diatribe
thesis
indefinite. all thought is-
and it is ever-changing.
i have suffered my own inconsonance.
the walls are becoming stairs
they swallow me,
and i am swept into their emptiness
no house is a home
it is a state-of-being.
this is not the end:
believe me, i hang swung from its
twists
and its turns
banal, desultory
empty in my resilience.
no, this is not an end,
though you call it so
and my face is a peacock
and pointed eyes, adamantine
diamonds, diamonds in the sky
i want more than plastic:
my face, embarked into
its lustrous suffocation.
oh, i want truth
hard-covered
it wants me, i can feel its
fingertips reaching
effortlessly
but the pages chomp it down.