notarize the thighs -iii)

It's nice to think life can be conducted like a train. Simply ride the straight rails, by what we know to be right. Making a pledge to honor and uphold the common human decencies. Promising, to anyone who will listen, not to circumvent our committed position. But soon comes the turning point, the moment of truth. Like a buoy marker flashing, or a smile's missing tooth. You could see it steady smoking in the fog of the dawn. In Chicago, Milwaukee and Boston. In Nashua, Hartford and Brooklyn. Maybe someone got trampled right there in the square. And lay face down in the mud, in an air of despair. Taken out with the trash by the morality banshee contigent. With the law behind them, to serve up the indigent.

What kind of charges were enlisted, that could really stick? Possession of marijuana, was often the trick. Soon to be thrown out of court, was the case. The accused then tossed out of jail, with just as much haste. With a record  blind-carbon-copied, bcc, for enforcers. So they can jack you again, whenever they please! Subject of past arrest? Get on your knees! 
The song remained the same, no matter how one carried oneself. Employed and educated, to the highest degree? Out on the streets, it's not what they see. Its your punk ass demeanor, versus their blind carbon copy. Some irrelevant nonsense. Like some herb, rolled up sloppy.

You can do as you please, but the truth remains elusive. You could travel the globe for the purest of sugars. Then come home with a sigh, all sweet in the knees. And notarize your thighs for the sex industry. Do as you please. Just don't blame anyone, at the end of the end, if you cannot stand tall, or still have to pretend. Kinda dextrose or sucralose, high, mid or low fructose. Tapped out on a plastic tree farm of sameness. Caught in contextual quicksand. Do as you please, do what you can. Simply notarize the thighs, to make your currency pass. Outsource the sex. Give head, with class.

Pop goes the nipple, for sensation. Immediately sends the blood to the caps. To the face and beyond, flushing meadows run over the place. Fight to edit your internal mixtape, all you want. You can pan and collect your instagram gold archives. You can curse about everything fucked up until you're blue. Or not. Go live alone, in a shoe. They might brand your take on culture, on a cereal box, while its still piping hot. Fortify with vitamins in a preservative base. For the kids.