Waste disorder lyrically in omission.
But a practical revision articulates
that which bombards with stillness.
No frills deconstruction,
you underscore with patience.
Up against dictation
break a dissonant chord.
Here and there a word
wracked by entitlement.
The garden of gross misfortune.
So wait, I have to importune
the power grubbers
with my questioning demands.
Comprehensive fear of nearness,
Mind the bones, not the spasms.
On the cusp in cuffs of fire.
Might this emphasize retreat?
Every principle rejected was replaced
with a pillar of colored sand.
You know exactly where I stand:
this land is mine, so sayeth the fine print.
In the end, it adds up to pocket lint.
A mandate straight from the mouths of moths.
So what if I’m soft?
held aloft by simple kite strings
and rings from archaic telephones?
The cronies have their bones to pick,
and the sickening texture of their moral “codes.”
In their frenzy, they’ve overloaded the wagons
with flagons of gut-rupturing wine.
Circumstances never align
the way they’re supposed to,
but with a closed fist and determination,
what compunction you’ll inspire!
It’s astonishing, really,
how easy it is to survive
the dive bomb logic of an apology.
One minute, you’re in it.
The next, you’re flexing.
Deviation dictates all.
I take this thunderclap for mine own.
So speaks… The coven, salacious.
The tone-deaf monarch breathing heavily.
Around the turn of a screw,
in lieu of hotboxing, these laborer’s fingers
twisting spliffs to engage thoughtfully.
Condescension with a smile.
The way these feminine eyes distress me
and even with a hangover.
I’d downed the wine, flipped the sacrament,
rendered praise unto husky mouths
rife with alphabetic tumors.
The way these feminine hands undress me…
Amid churning stars and specters.
Trees piling on trees. Limitless shadow.
Mine own hands steeped in the boiling nectar.
I only considered the proposal,
the desolate prospect of her windblown song.
We ate of the valley’s festering fruit
and fucked in the grass.
She said these lies were a burden.
More than… The future,
an approaching train, white light
intensifying until only heat.
A remainder, or a reminder.
We carry lethargically on
and summer shoots through every window.
Another lost weekend for the pyre.
A feeling creeps out of twilight’s residue.
It’s a feeling clobbered by the idea
that to get somewhere you have to take it
step by step, an idea which ignores
the existence of the leap.
What a mess I was when you discovered me
discovering the process of linear thought.
It turns out that we both had been caught
in the same tar pit which sits
between will and idea.
We were both still young enough
to conceive a difference, after all
but soon came to find that there was only tar;
the limits were a fabrication, a consequence
of our two minds’ mutual inability
to accept that we were stuck and sinking
without any hope of breaking free…
“Too often, I find myself playing ghost,”
was what she said, and with that,
an itch came on sweet and sound.
Things fall in and out of place like that
constantly. Sometimes correctly, but
mostly never in the ways we want.
So we go on, telling ourselves
whatever tales need telling,
spelling out the spillage so that
we can better ignore our inadequacies
and sleep our dreamless sleep.
These thoughts roiling the deeper regions
of the brain will never unhinge us
from the sacrificial slab.
The eyes have it, or they don’t.
Meanwhile, she let her robes fall
about her feet and basked in the cold April sun.
A limit had come undone, one
we never acknowledged, but whose necessity
was now apparent in the light
of this new situation. Time for a falling in,
what we originally supposed was a cop-out.
All over, seeds were beginning to sprout,
those we’d scattered and forgotten about,
and truthfully, we were still in the midst
of that forgetting, if only for the convenience.
Spring does a number on a body,
but this is a well-kept secret, stashed
beneath some floorboard
in a parlor outside of time.
Yesteryear, the syphilitics praise
a redundancy like no other.
Doomed we are to walk this sullen road,
comet tails ablaze and biting.
I’ve drank of the stagnant water
poured from the horse’s mouth
and felt otherwise refreshed.
It was like this in the future
we saw once in the iPhone ad.
My teeth came unclenched.
Mucked the filter, fucked the landline.
Scrubbed down with anxiousness
and turpentine, we don hefty robes
and chain smoke in oblivion.
The taste is slightly sour, often sweet.
Nothing beats an evening in the shade.