life's chopping board

fingers frozen in failed determination.
these white slabs are my canvas.
my canvas, broken
over a stone chair -

sometimes it snows in november here.
little white flecks gracing blades,
melting in inferiority,
making us remember a time in which
the sun blasted cement
created heat waves and hail balls of sweat
making us wish for gentler weather -

but there is nothing gentle
about weather.
nor is there anything gentle
about art, about science,
about people, about us -
maybe sometimes we

hope wish pray
kill imprison cry for
cry about scream to petition for
something more gentle

without realizing that everything
is a harsh, dancing guillotine,
giving the impression of a pillow
until the head is place within -

and sometimes
all we've left to do
is lose our heads.