Grips

You seem to be falling out,
like fading away, playing
fool/goof/phantom/drunken joke
to grown up little boys and girls
across sad broken south Philly homes
that chug and churn like the machines
of the past regurgitating old
memories onto old faces and wrinkles
of the mourning night too
close to sunrise to remember--
too locked in twisted horns
with dead things, meaningless things
that need to be let go-- a drowning
universal truth slugging its way
at your temple-- a a a--
just to let you down and you brood about
these things that can't change
next to open window and open veins,
when you're supposed to be the one
that lives and blazes and burns--

Incoherently I'm incoherent
137 miles in hell and away
like fading rivers pulled under heavy roads
of gray dawns--I'm connecting these thoughts
drying out--

You seem to be losing your grip
on where your reality resides--