The River Eye

Nicotine
amuses me
with my own
mortality

as the contempt of the eye
barks like a panicked dog
upon the opposite side
of a door, holding us
all apart

While I, as the eye,
have always been there
collect within my litterbug-landscape
of rusted things
that are no longer wanted
nor wished for

When the soul is only a traveler here.

Where once upon a time in Americana
something must have went terribly wrong.

as the current of the eye
pulls us along
deep inside,
where there is only wanderlust,
and the oft-worn craft
of handmade gods,
and the perpetual current
of the beautified image
and something ado about perfection.

Nicotine 
once amused me
with my own 
mortaility.

Like roadkill on the way
to the new Shang Gri La,
a rabble-scamp eyesore
of what was once believed--
Lost and ground
underneath many wheels
and heels of what is
and what must be real.

The soul is only a traveler here.

Nicotine
haunts me 
with my own
mortality.

I am not sure
which will disappear first,
the wanted,
or the wanting

as the contempt of the eye
barks like panicked dog
upon the opposite side
of a door, holding 
us apart.