Plastic Water Glass Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

The man fondles his truth.
Scratching teeth clicking
in senseless appeal.
His dungeon is
flapping ghosts
at a mile a minute.
Lazy hands that do
not want to touch.
Fingers flexing
in perplexed thunder.
The man understands
that his body is
controlled by the
external light-bulbs
being turned on and off.
No control. No depth.
Surface thinking and
groaning that is inaudible.

Grasp at straws.
Grab at loose demons.

They dump toxic waste
into the plastic water glass.
He drinks of this liquid.
It flickers in his throat
with impossible awareness.
The man stands feebly
upon the floor of melancholy.

What does he hear?
What does he feel?
What stranded nonsense
is still left to the imagination?

Heart pumps strong, for
blood flows in loaded veins.

The man is tired now.
Unconcerned about the
current state of affairs.