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I’m the guy who can’t rhyme,
Doesn’t rhyme, doesn’t understand rhythm, meter, or design,
And who often, often,
in the rush home from your house at 11:30, rushing to meet curfew.
Coming back from that which keeps the blood moving slowly, softly, through my veins.

Wonders, how it would feel, if I were to slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, ease my hands off the wheel.
How long my blackened sepulcher with wheels would hurtle onward
I wonder if in those supercharged possibly final moments I would finally grasp
An appreciation, or lack thereinof, for that “gift” of life,
I would find a final answer to the “only true philosophical question”

I suppose I could do it on a straight away,
And see if I had the cohones not to make a move.
To stare death in the face, to embrace it with open arms.
Or y’know, afterwards, I’ll say it was “to see if I had the reflexes to save myself,”
Y’know, cuz it was just a game. You know that right? Oh good.
I wouldn’t want to worry you.
Y’know.

I’m the guy who doesn’t want to step back from the ledge.
But is too afraid of oblivion to pledge
“In a minute there is time, for a dozen visions and revisions
Which another minute will erase.”

So now let’s just….
Ease the temporal away, peel this clockwork orange
To its very seeds. Let’s see under
This
Skin
And
Smile.