The March

A staring contest with reality,
I have ruined my reputation,
my black-breasted sins floating
to the top of my carbonated beer.

Dumb girl. Society has you
in their pockets, top shelf
of the coat closet like forgotten
money, surprise, surprise.

They thank you for allowing
them to fill their time with
judgments of you. You do not
follow their guidance.

You are a shunned disciple,
your life at the bottom
of the Hell pile. Don’t let
it be so.

You’re in dire need of a panic
attack, but not here, not now,
and not spawned by a hangover.
It needs to emerge and resurrect
from fear, from Jonathan Edwards’
speech in a monotone voice.

You must faint. You must fall
for persuasive speeches and
psychological persuasion.

You must follow Hitler,
your morality like a straight
pointed arm.