nothing to sneeze at

its no coincidence that
I be pointing to my weapon
constantly
look, how sharp, how ready
to swing, with a back wind
even if it never swang before

its no coincidence that
I spend two hours each day
scraping at a stone
to maintain my pointy edge

its no coincidence that
stuff gets sliced around me
if I let my locus lapse
for even a minute
after all, we are contagious
hatchet hatchet

frozen solid

not just the roads
with some bit of effort
a complete disregard of
my commitments
a solid don't care
between myself
and the many decisions
that remain before death
or next week, whichever comes first
an unnatural lack of fear
about any futures
a cozy forgetful
of horrific, also boring, pasts
a few snuggles with
other creatures of warmth and love
you will NOT believe how many there are
and how few we are allowed to touch
and I can almost be
filled with happiness
excitement, anticipation
suchlike, is the point
surely?