el Corrido de una joven Pendejo

A hurricane of hatred;
naïve, indignant rebellion left
what's left
high and
dry— stranded on a foggy
sea.
An all consuming misery
without vector.
barely surviving on a
     dwindling,
rationed hope of concinnity.


I lie asleep yet in ever crescendoing
conscious agony.
Head now spinning,
ensnared in a web of my own
spinning.
Refuges of repose turned stale;
sterile with the spinning of the
world.
Warm, disorienting prison
edified upon shifting sands stands,
still.


I felt greatness  once—
tasted the air,
even.
Now I'm trapped trying to
look at once to the left and
the Right
as my cards fall where they
may— waiting
for the play.