I’m faintly skinned in this bitter cold.
And all my laundry is dirty.
And since I’m feeling lazy,
I’m just gonna go outside naked.
You gotta roll with it,
I tell myself to the curmudgeon
deep inside my heart.
They can’t stop you,
remarks the rapper on my shoulder.
My skin is the color of shame,
My scent is a pheromone of guilt.
I consider this to mean
something smells so strongly
its fumes are now visible;
like smoke from a fire,
and steam from a train,
it’s the unavoidable byproduct
to animating emphasis,
as I obliterate every last nail
in every coffin and corpse
that floats my way.
My life coach tells me an adage
for running through brick walls.
I tip my hard hat, which is no innuendo,
and I get back to work.
That’s the spirit, he says, and,
content is never the wallbreaker.
He see right through me.