Orbit

 The two greatest fears in conflict:
 Life and death.  the Future
 Past
 so fast that it becomes the present:
 Fleeting joy and shredded paper
 and a cutthroat return policy.

 Anecdotal evidence is inadmissible in court with
 a solipsistic judge, jury, and executioner.

 So rhythmically it's predictably familiar and still
 my tongue hugs the contours of each sugary pill.
 A placebo for the diabetic offers no hope.
 Given a foot, it'll take twelve more of rope.

 It's the steeliest mentality:
 Easy enough to fall into the black hole
                                            my body            has worn cold
                                                                      into my bed.

 The universe tends towards stillness.
 Nature abhors the vacuum because the two have grown too much

 Contemptuous.

A Blind Eye for an Eye

I learned to steal without sneaking

around the place my mother slept

is fear of cutting off my hands like she does
and feeding those fingers, still soft
despite the scars and calluses and cultivated
arthritis
to a bastard like me who learned from his thieving father,

who waits instead.  Oversleeps easy.
Her bed grows cold sometime after her leaving

and I walk.  Without a pause around two corners
next to her head or at her feet is where she keeps
her money.

She never asked me why I shouted so angrily at her:
I raised my voice to hear myself louder
Snapped every response to the growling house –
A dialogue with my disgusted, tiresome self.

I learned to stop stealing.  I’m still always sneaking.
always lying when I promise to apologize to her
and when I mean to return what she lost to me

I can never return the life she wasted for me.
I can’t even return mine to her.