The Aftermath As Written On Scrap Paper Poem by Matt Mullins

Good morning: and spit curls the half
fractured way of a moon grown soft
to crack like a rotten egg milking
over this dawn’s slow horizon:
today this sun is too hard a yoke to bear

Empty tank, empty wallet
four bucks worth of gas and life
in the fast lane throbbing past
all the clarifications of distraction
woven so delicately in:

Lady in line ahead of me at the gas station
10 am and she’s putting her hopes toward the lotto:
80mill worth to hit it, forty five dollars at a time
and me on the slow drain, last night’s entertainment
hung on the line of wealthy friend’s mansion alarm
still ringing through my mind

who am I fooling but the fool himself
distractions toward longing
time thrown to the side, a mind honed to edge
until it dulls or shines-to be abandoned
to abandon the self is to be purer than
an eternal sea of apologies flung
into the wake of what we leave behind

Holy holy holy, gods of power and might
May heaven and earth be filled with our glory
Our perfect excuses for why.