Russ Viola

I have no pur­pose.
Save that which I set.
My watch­word, the com­pany I keep.
Mir­rors in the faces that sur­round me.
These peo­ple hail from lands far and near.

The Road is closed.
I have for­got­ten the direc­tion.
Detour signs con­stantly lead­ing me astray.
New houses, no Home while I roam.
Truth dances up ahead, heat waves on tarmac.

Dharma the empty word.
Dis­ci­pline long absent these days.
Does the cry of havoc damn?
Dogs already loose, gnaw­ing my fret­ful mind.
Dawn never ready to illu­mi­nate the dark confusion.

Forced march, tune­less, foot­sore.
The Muse is on hol­i­day.
She’s left me no for­ward­ing address.
Hol­low sounds and empty words have no weight.
Trad­ing inspi­ra­tion for wine to make fire in my belly.

Shit flows from my lips, unceas­ing.
Self indul­gence fol­lows, self impor­tance ’round cir­cles.
I’m sick of myself.
Weak, faulted to the core.

~
Munich 2012