The Janus Gland by Thal Nolan
my betty ford taurus gl sits quiet as a mouse with its carcinogen smell; the snapped rod of steering a beacon for the way my life is veering out of control down that road some call a drain. keep your eye on the ball-room dance as i waltz the slow steps of epitaphs, hippogriffs and hieroglyphs. try as i might to keep my chin up, above water i find my self swimming against the torrential avalanche of forward. each dawn brings yet another dusk on the horizon of onward. i seem to have lost my way on this unlit path, not knowing what i head toward. each time i sit down to rest, relax, and rewind, the past lets me know iâ€™m not wanted. with the mask of the undaunted, i look ahead and head into that gauntlet. with an iron fist around my iron lungs, the now rules my right to breath and owns the world i try to heave on my cracked, marble shoulders. in the eye of the beholderâ€™s, i simply do not belong; like the boulders in the road before mine. a field of iron pyrite, iâ€™m d!
igging my own hole so i wonâ€™t stick out, like an opposable thumb among the righteous and the hung. iâ€™ll be a sight for sore eyes, humble pies, and rumple stiltskin solutions as i put one stump in front of the other. my best nub forward, iâ€™ll trip on the old lines of quotes and turncoats as i pay my red-hue dues to charon and his swiss cheese boats. what-never floats your banana, i guess. youâ€™ll ask me how iâ€™ve been, but i must confess....