another new poem that has no title

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this sick and stumbling cadence which we walk to

does not oft break from its beat upon our backs

it worries me that we

the children of children long since dead

have become so taxed by this humdrum stumbling

we have succumbed to

we have become so accustomed to this sense of dread that

our shoes can only shuffle

our arms can only bend

our voices only stutter

we have no charge left in our chests

now i would be hard pressed to guess how this mess

has come to be

was it a mess made by god?

or a mess made by me?

but i am not one to point a finger

especially at god

who may very well point one back at me

and that is not a finger i would much like to have in my face

however

me and the devil go out drinking sometimes

get all gussied up and head out

to make a mess

well spoken and better dressed

we will sit for hours

me with my old fashioned

and he with his coors light silver bullet

we just sit and shoot the shit

tell some dirty jokes

maybe lament a little

over girls who had broke our hearts

then me and the devil start to stagger

back to where we came from

sometimes i cannot tell

if i stumble to my home

or

if i stumble into hell

but that is fine

i can make my messes anywhere

but when i do

i hope that there is a great big hand

coming down from a rain cloud

with that one big first finger

ready to waggle