sometimes the man
is a bat
in that a pen in his hand
is giving wings to a rat
lives in his own world
and his world is flat
thoughts like ships fall
off the map

drip drops from the
water tap
tap, tap his forehead like
a torture trap
to drown, to ground in a
whatever hope one hoped
to have

to churn,
to burn, to set flame
a laugh
that echoes down a
burning path
to exist dissolved in
an acidic bath
so well deserved as a
matter of fact

-m.p. 11/18/2016

[link to “fact, pt. 1”]