Thoughts on the Movement (a conversation for Brownstone)

we've got one foot in the grave
and the other
it's on the outside
grasping at candles in the dark

we're unsure and stable
a thesaurus of
walking contradictions
spinning tangled webs of thought
and lies
that we weave
around and around
in Brooklyn pads
or diners
or karaoke bars

and I can't remember
what truth is
(like we ever began with truth in the first place)
but where did it go?
it changes from day to day
setting to setting
it's never the same

I love women
and faces
and poetry
and stories about bars or
strung out medicine men
spitting into cold springs
in hot jungles

sometimes
I like the quiet of morning
and burning cigarettes
like they're air in my lungs
(though I know it's poison)
but maybe I like poison
the burn of what is real
scratching against my throat
and the pain of what hurts
because I know it's real

I've got one foot in the grave
and I'm not ready
to take it out just yet