I am the Fool

chronologically random
this jagged
puzzle-pieced
thing
stabs and twists
my every
day

scotch and tar
broccoli stains
on glass, wood
carpet
gone sticky black
gangly moist
         paper towels
         oxy-clean
still shit brown
bad-mouthed
skunky and gagging

don't walk in it
it grabs then leaves
its own prints unfickly
a-pattering across
pocking the plastic
fur

but if i took a sip
for every spilled line
just about
be par

disease?!
weary and drunk
does not mean
drunk and hopeless
this two fisted
one
finds his gloves
in the oddest of
places

nobody listens as
i wax tragic
in potentia
stabs and twists
my every
day

then someone will find this
not you, someone else
and declare me a genius!
which just goes to show
the fools run everything
is there anyone else, though?
anyone?
other than the fools?
sometimes i fear we all are*
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*with our pants on the ground