For All I Care

Life is not
some juncture in the road
but rather the winding trail
that leads there,
to the end of life,
whatever that might mean
or not mean to some.

It seems odd to me,
given certain
perceived claims
about a world
we have no proof of
and have no certain
message back from,
and yet
we spend the majority
of our waking hours
making claims
and yet claiming
no responsibility
for what we do.

We all know where
all trails end but
who knows how
they get there?

And yet,
here,
in this moment,
lies naked
this perfectly good woman
with Portuguese
man o'war breasts,
sea-foam hair,
lips the cinnabar flame
of a last good meal,
legs that polestar
the eastern skyward yaw
of an open deck,
an eagle's nest plushness
that faces the sun
as easily
as a moonlit cove
and eyes that see
into the very darkest heart
I bare to spark,
and I should bother
with God and the angels
and some smattering
of rubbish written
on a platted plate
of reeds and oleander?  

Give me instead
the nape of her neck
and the ringed night,
and in the morning
take my soul
for all its worth,
and give me
one great night
of torrid love making
and the whole bothered universe
can go straight to hell.

runningturtle87