anger

you’ve gotta be an asshole to think your ship is perfect, anyways

poetry

his perfect ship has the smallest hull fracture
and he wonders, leaving every port
“this time will it crack?
this time will the madness take?”

he’s travelling down portage road
towards the only gas station with the metro news
but the boy at the counter
his father is a regular at the bar
and knows his wife, and what’s he doing
out here this late anyway? the boy has
asked
and he can feel the crack stress

down below the captain fears
the pitch-black madness of the sea

it has tainted him, and he throws
his fists at the truck driver by
the coffee pots

the crack leaking in the madness
of the cold dark sea already

the waiting room

poetry

an hour passes
and i’m still here
waiting on,
fulfilling the room’s purpose;

so at least one of us should be glad,
basking in the glow of fulfillment,
being what we were created to be,
and perhaps that one is me.

perhaps i should be glad
to wait on my betters,
to be at their call,
paying them to be my betters.

but still the anger rises
and the visions of outbursts
pass before my unoccupied mind,
internally, impotently screaming,
waiting for my turn to come.