.......

These scissors don't cut through much -
their blades are mighty dull.
They match the drag of days with nothing better to do
than watch the clouds saunter by: wispy white on a pleasant
blue canvas, swirling and swimming like the cigarette smoke
spilling constantly from my mouth after it takes a quick
vacation in my lungs.
Knife in hand, i contemplate a visit to the attic.
The silver rungs of the seemingly endless ladder end
with the cool embrace of King Elvis
or Jesus Christ himself. I blame those scratches on the cat.
(It sometimes seems easier to believe scars that deep
could come from feline claws than the nails hammered
into a man something like two thousand years ago could
bring us salvation.)
Staring at the ceiling in the dark is more satisfying than
the back of my eyelids on sleepless nights, wondering
where you are and why i care. When the snow falls silent and
the sidewalks seem like tricks and traps, though a fleeting
moment of happiness tears me away from the doldrums
of dreams and nightmares, the accompanying cold
and my brittle bones collaborate to make my journey
uncomfortable. When even the fading light
of the refrigerator needs to be viewed through
dark glasses and morning doesn't break until sometime
past noon, it is time to decide if the white-knuckled fist
wrapped around the neck of the bottle is
really the one with the tightest grip.