These little sprinklings of insight
sure do sting. It’s about time
we try punching in all directions
All in all all at once.
Didn’t my last dunce cap
come with a tassel? Of course
that was before the miscreant mass
of bootlicking savants
stormed the castle
and told everybody to go home.
My home was behind
the petrified eye of my Self
reflected in the eye of a storm;
it was a long trudge, for sure,
and took up the better part
of my afternoon.
In the background, voices crowing,
oblivion bleeding through the seams…
Atop this mound
of disemboweled clocks and watches,
the land seems impermanent.
I wave to you
from an opposing coast and you
don’t notice. Such is our rapport.
Rinse and repeat these words.
Clarity comes clattering
like a thousand dropped swords.
I think it’s time for reappraisal, for
reprising the roles
we had initially intended for ourselves.
I see you getting all ambiguous in the rain,
and find it comforting
to know that things like this
are still possible, that
with enough distance,
everything looks meaningless,
even the memes we make of ourselves
to keep us in suspension.
You used to view me with suspicion.
The joke’s officially on you.
The week of my many happy returns
plays in reruns. Sometimes, it’s good
to have minor, though persistent,
aches traipsing within the self.
It makes for a more compelling landscape.
And cigarette smoke is declaring its supremacy
in the air where strangers practice deference.
It’s our policy to reject policy.
Cold water skims the surface
of what some would call folk wisdom.
I procured these fat and quivering letters
to make a new word for “delinquency,”
a scheme to which some were privy,
and that was my achievement of the week,
the week of my many happy returns.
Shyly, I stomp upon the burial urns
containing my filial piety.
Shyly, I seek the furnace where
I’m to burn posterity.
Call me a menace, maybe,
and I’ll whip the shipshape out of you.
I came not to destroy, but defuse.
Stripped of resonance,
I shall in spring melt
with the snow and be absolved
for once in my brief tenure.
I haven’t decided yet
on how I shall inure myself
to the knowing, prodding fingers
fixing to unstitch my bones.
There’s a price for loneliness,
as one can expect. Sometimes
it’s a pine box, while others,
it’s a great big headache
plunging you to extremes.
How is it even in dreams I still get wet?
Consider me a setback,
or a bled relic,
or an overzealous underachiever,
and I’ll return crying over spilled milk.
is an oft-neglected blossom,
therefore these paper dry petals
at the front door of America.
We sure do like our whiplash, don’t we?
Likewise this dinner of crimson
ostensibly placed before us
by the omnipotent. Nothing
is quite as free as the blood which flows
arbitrarily from a bullet-ridden chest.
The rest of us get to get on with living,
but at what price?
In the last place,
we are impure.
Lacking the necessary
motivation to bear fruit.
Rude and generally
Later, these will give rise
to apathetic arias,
For now, let’s just go on
collecting the crust
from the corners
of the warped
mouth of truth.
Someone told me
once upon a time
“Let the light in.”
So I did, and the light
turned my domicile
upside down, spilled
all over the furniture
and floors, stained
the walls, and generally
made a mess of everything.
So, not really angry,
turned the light out,
and the light stood
fuming in the street.
I locked my doors,
drew the curtains,
just to drive the point home.
I haven’t seen the light.