One man nudist colony.

I’m faintly skinned in this bitter cold.
And all my laundry is dirty.
And since I’m feeling lazy,
I’m just gonna go outside naked.

You gotta roll with it,
I tell myself to the curmudgeon
deep inside my heart.

They can’t stop you,
remarks the rapper on my shoulder.

My skin is the color of shame,
My scent is a pheromone of guilt.
I consider this to mean
something smells so strongly
its fumes are now visible;

like smoke from a fire,
and steam from a train,
it’s the unavoidable byproduct
to animating emphasis,
as I obliterate every last nail
in every coffin and corpse
that floats my way.

My life coach tells me an adage
for running through brick walls.
I tip my hard hat, which is no innuendo,
and I get back to work.

That’s the spirit, he says, and,
content is never the wallbreaker.
He see right through me.


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