terminal velocity.

hurtling at breakneck pace toward failure.
that's a real thing.
sometimes,
real on-the-real duders find themselves
on a real-life ozzy-type crazy train.
a runaway train, even.
a dastardly villain-rigged, twirling moustachioed,
top-hat-and-cape kind of juggernaut of improbability.
a comet of conundrum disintegrating as it enters the atmosphere.
a meteoric mass of monumental middling mayhem.
a titanic titanic, complete with snow and icebergs.
i'm sayin',
sh!t falls apart.
is it a tryptophan-induced lapse in reason?
a laced-leftovers food poison vision quest?
a holiday season gulag work camp fatigue suicide?
i don't know for sure,
but i want to get off of whatever it is, ninjas.
berserker sh!t is cool,
but kamikaze isn't as fresh.
i want butt-naked unshielded axe warrior fury,
not plummeting poop-boat tardin'.
word up.
keep an eye out for my stop, kids,
i'm gonna be white-knuckled and squint-eyed until then.
holding on for dear life.
for real life.
for Folk Life.
that's no joke.
up since 4 a.m.,
helping put the turd in saturday.
uh-huh.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....