That Side of Life

Squeezing Roman coins from the back through the mouth without bitterness is a rough business, quiet,
smooth as a newborn’s bottom now living on
without much need to say anything. Am I done here?
I certainly feel so. Though I am smiling
as I didn’t expect my child to respond anymore: this smirk
is meeting with internal viewers—all-knowing; clueless—the knowers
being god-smacked and wry and other knows what indifferently
as the bible goes down—the geese
are cooking. We are creating new television hardly feeling
a thing being just as close to the whole thing, experientially; though that’s as far
as I am going again, I hope? Can I just kill that side of life
at no cost? It’s iron content certainly, but the best way
to measure discrepancies? Who cares anymore—I think
you should put that down boys: it’s making a mess.