Feelings seem like made-up things, 
though I know they’re not.   
I don’t understand why they lead me 
around, why I can’t explain to the cop   
how the pot got in my car, 
how my relationship   
with god resembled that 
of a prisoner and firing squad   
and how I felt after I was shot. 
Because then, the way I felt   
was feelingless. I had no further 
problems with authority.    
I was free from the sharp 
tongue of the boot of life,   
from its scuffed leather toe. 
My heart broken like a green bottle   
in a parking lot. My life a parking lot, 
ninety-eight degrees in the shade   
but there is no shade, 
never even a sliver.