Setting My Face Toward Justice #justice #ConstitutionalCrisis #Persistance

Not gonna lie. I will require divine intervention to persist in the direction I choose to head. Some would call this entry a "word salad". Others, "poetry". Well, ok.

It’s Your Call

Am I lost?

Keys are in my pocket. Compass in hand.

Keys are silent, not even a jingle.

Compass’s unblinking, monocle eye stares at the sky

and points, unsure as to why the 3 other directions

are painted on its face. I suspect if it had shoulders

to shrug, it would.

Did I walk right past that promised portal

to secure and restful habitation for my

senior years?

I ask no one in particular,

“Should I keep looking?”

My voice is thick with futility,

and I sound like I’m choking on

the obvious,

under the duress of the unspent sarcasm

which wracks my bones.

What has happened to me?

Any idiot can detect an anomaly

in a wave form pattern

if familiar with its normal rhythm.

Have I forgotten what is normal?

Should I say something about this?

If I try, instead of a plea, would a primal scream

erupt, leaving anyone within earshot

rattled, their minds aching

as if they’ve just received a blow to their heads by a

verbal feral frying pan asking,

“May I have your attention please!?”

I have no answer or advice. Just take

a spatula and a scouring pad to all that

scorched earth.

Pardon me while I use it to flip pancakes

and turn tables, or

turn pancakes and flip tables.

Notice how the scent of maple syrup

nearly covers the creeping mold-like odor

of exasperated complacency escaping my pores.

I wonder if creamer conspires to

muddy the waters as I take another

sip of warm beverage from benevolent-appearing mug

while I try to figure out what the hell to do or say next.

One thing for sure is that I won’t again be

blind-sided by another’s fake tears.

They’re everywhere, insipid little molecules exhaled

in hurricane force sighs, spinning an unsuspecting friendship

to the depths of a whirling black hole vortex maintained by 

fascist snake charmer’s death grip

on their misery

and its insatiable desire for company.

Those greasy little death grip hands will be cold and lifeless at some point,

but would a decent person take comfort in this

knowledge?

Am I a decent person?

And another thing:

No more benefit of the doubt for persecution crime victim cosplayers

Who claim,

“No, no, this is not a just a bad bleach job and botched Botox;

Not a projection from incest-induced Stockholm Syndrome

or previously repressed racist scapegoating!

I’m just reinventing myself and taking back my country.

Now, do you have a fifty round ammo magazine and a cup of children’s blood

I could borrow?”

while staring at me, waiting for my eyes

to turn envy-green, then

they look straight through me.

Driven to boredom by the vacuousness of such moments,

I contemplate what shape of galaxy exists

in my brain, and does it have a name?

Of course, it has stars as points and the shortest distance

between any pair of them, some forming line segments that are

parallel, while others intersect,

but the one thing they have in common is

none sport little arrows at their ends.

They all terminate eventually.

They all fall short of infinity.

It’s all thumbtacks and yarn up there,

and I try to think good thoughts to make them

vibrate because I don’t believe in Tinkerbell anymore,

after she made a mess of my concept of reality, leaving her makeup

strewn about the place like a damn psycho.

Now instead my ears work in reverse to hear whatever

tune is being cooked up in my head.

What is missing in this cranial equation are the lyrics.

A handful of comprehendible verses

punctuated with a resonating refrain,

linked by a bridge; one that can hold

up a 10-ton load of relevance,

not just some cheap thread of strung-together la la laaas.

But it hasn’t rained in days,

I’ve not been sleeping,

therefore, I’ve been easily distracted

with keeping my fantasy nails trim lest I snag

the yarn or tug a tack. That’s a crisis

I cannot afford.

I awaken over and over,

worried I’d left something on the stove.

Had I forgotten to shut off a burner?

Have I been neglectful or reckless with

these fires I’ve started?

Is that smoke I smell?

Have I left the door unlocked?

I put my hand on the door, to feel if it

is hot. It is warm, but is that due to an inferno outside

or the heat from the paw of a hungry bear

on the opposite side of where my palm rests?

Am I safe on this side of the door,

or is this a fire exit, and I need to get the hell out?

Maybe it’s the warmth from an amphitheater

filled with fresh-from-the-oven dreams

and blessings—

the best I’ve ever known.

Sure, the compass is pointing right at that portal,

but the center cyclops eye looks up at me saying,

“it’s your call”.

There’s no sleepwalking through this moment.

I may not be as lost as I think I am.

Bony sarcasm holds its peace as

I take a breath and clear my throat.

The yarn vibrates, the tacks are holding.

I can hear the music and start to hum along.

I step forward.

Sandra K King(copyright)2025

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