my weapon

i sit up late as i can every night, facing a colonial army of glowing chemical lights, and sharpen my words on cold stones of ice. in the mornings, or the afternoons, dulled, docile, lulled into material climbs and forced destruction of character--black into white, white into black. i grind my teeth, i chirp through pursed lips, i smile through the contradictions of my own hatred and disgust, and fatten my purse. all day. or my day. anyway. later, iced, shivering in the yard, blowing smoke through chattering jaws, i sharpen my words, my only weapon--grinding my tongue on glaciers of stone, soaked in water some nights, whiskey others. Bruce is Bruce. Jackie Jackie. So So. so it goes. another day, another brick in my pyramid of envelopes, another shit-talk, another sham. across many rivers, maybe. maybe i hope. maybe i hope for failure here.