The Mind Is Like A Shark

Working at Wal-Mart
and doing that Charles Bukowski thing
my mind is like a shark
swimming in the ether
forever in search of its next meal.

Days on days,
night after night,
the meal is the same,
bone white and soft,
sea-soaked by the banalities
of obvious meat.

The mind never stops to rest.
Even in slumber it moves,
winding its thread of chains
and binding the limbs of emancipation.

It is a dangerous, toothy thing:
it does not suffer fools:
the meat and scat
of its ever-penultimate realization.

It swims to the light
of spatial-temporal equidistant
sunlit surfaces
where its own pale and final reflection
dances quickly
like a last meal.

June 2, 2012