pome number something something

How many nods can you give
to self-destruction,
to third person observations of
bad habits makin' the moment
the moment?

How much math adds up
to justification
(shit, rationalization)
of times makin' the subject
predicate?

Ain't none, really:
blink dry-mouthed,
light another stoge, punctuate the
headphone quiet,
and write another desperate line.

And another. Another.
Pause. Long,
long pause.
Another.
Another.

Reframe a year on,
when everything's different
but not at all.
Interstitial itches just get worse
and goddamn if the failure don't weigh a ton more.

Now's still now,
even a year on.
It's what we do, me and y'all both,
pushing, pulling that motherfuckin' today,
ignoring that all todays lead--