Karmic slack

Karmic slack
by Lisa Munson
we never find the juice
pouring from our veins
and singing like Dylan
not wanting to be on Maggie’s Farm
no more no more no more
quiet we whale march into dawn
becoming more enlightened
and white and looming large
barnacled to the split second
of sleeplessness wondering
what is real
this tired eye beacon
knocks us down erupts
like a Cartesian hurricane
flinging ciphers incising
superficial flesh wounds
don’t touch just leave
leave it
be