The Chair

3/20/24

So, lonely people eat chairs,
cause rather sit than stand
goes eating under floors,
like strollers in a lion cage
a baby bearing meat-practice
ain’t long enough to be a sin!
That’s one chair right there.

Another to the glass we get
paid to pass the way of time fades,
each and every day. Cheers! That,
right there, is a second chair.

A third to the psalm they play
in accordance to the menial wedding,
or funeral, or whatever, today.
The lyrics harbor plain and complex,
upright and unruly, vague and unconfident,
on-the-nose and egocentric, chair,
hateful and gracious, chair,
fuck and economics, chair,
president and the beauty, chair
and the beast and the priest
puts the cup down. Do you take this
chair to be your meal? I do.
Do you promise to nibble at it
until the day you die? I do.
Can you withstand the grain
of the swallow? I can.
Can you reside the wooden
of the pain within? I’m in.
The priest fed me a wafer of wood,
all culk-y-chalk-like surfaces slick
down my larynx. A faulty form of practice
for future glands, and, like that,
a third and final chair.

I eat it everyday.
Grain by grain, spec by spec.
Sometimes I eat more,
sometimes I skip meals,
but the chair is always there.
The chair is above the child I bare.
The chair trades love for production.
The chair is the pain from the fame of a wet dream.
The chair is every unfair plague or plaque that harms us.
The chair is a promise to a land out of here.
The chair is a subconscious rodeo
I ride each and every day.
I eat dirt and grain to stay alive
and breath in pain to bide my time.
I love you, Chair, I love you.