Thick Bacon & a Garage to Nowhere

and the reckless people
like myself
keep colliding
with life.

in bathroom
and barns,
and standing in shit.

pacing proverbial,
with rich rights to be,
free of time,
terrible at best.

counting water and cards,
shards of glass
from broken bones
and promises.

love is not tender
anymore, nor is it
sweet or satisfactory,
bit bitter and told.

like rocking chairs
with sweaty back,
we repeat
and get deceased.