Never More Nice Guy

When I was slightly younger and read far more stories,
I enjoyed the 'listing fast from ruptured hull' type the best,
now as I read less, I write into my days like chalk on a wet sidewalk,
fascinating stories, the ones that knock the breath out of you,
like a wind kicking up about as you breathe in.

For if I read many of these short figures on stilts around me like books,
the leather-bound jacket would surely meet its opposite,
on the other side, with little in the middle, like a Siamese twin,
and these characteristics fade into the absurd projection of horrible abnormalities,
a collection of faded traits that diary the suicide of human sense.

Like a sense of smell in a slaughter house,
our knack for beauty, has it become a mere scale?
a measurement of another social failure,
do we resign to our caves, now that we have decided there is nothing,
outside worth our blurry gazed attention to missing the point?