Had I wished this otherwise,
you’d all be hailstones by now.
Upon the furrowed brow of decency,
a plateau of quivering glass
They say it gets interesting here,
but you know I have my doubts,
and I distribute them daily
with handfuls of ganja dust.
Just look at the signs, the omens I mean!
What’s that they’re birthing?
If you can’t tell from this angle,
hold your precepts like a rosary
and start praying like hell.
No one owes us any favors,
as is the flavor of the day.
I’m slightly capable of grinding my own bones.
I wasn’t put here to merely function,
or was I? Lately, the evenings close
with careless chemical spills,
and we’ve come up with a way
to distil the lresidue into a soothing spirit.
Let’s hear it for resourcefulness!
and with a forcefulness
not even death can muster,
we come careening through the cobwebs
to seize history by the throat.
Hold on to your delirium.
The diatribe mechanism
is gummed up with sunshine.
And the legions of cold sores
gathering in the distance
show no signs of accomplishing anything.
Pompous and ponderous,
I wrap myself in a discursive shroud
and push penance aside.
Walk beside me, feral one,
that we may walk as equals.
Already, three sequels
have been commissioned,
and I’ve grown numb to the weeds.
It isn’t like I had it any better,
but a wetter kind of climate
wrapped me up and took me in its throat.
I’ve been fatigued and bloated
since the beginning. I couldn’t tell you
where that is, but you can see it
with your fingers, so go from there.
I’ll take whatever care is necessary
to conceal my withered flesh from you,
my dreamy worm. Other sources
will confirm this, and cause you
great discomfort in so doing.
We’ll be wilted and wooing
the usual suspects in a minute or two.
Now – tilt your head back
and down this moody brew.
Chew the scenery, but don’t swallow.
Wallow in the weaponized filth.
Strange bacteria will keep us
from sleep forevermore.
eggs at my fulcrum,
the push and permanence
Harbor the mean
for a quizzical bearing,
leave it up air scrawling.
It’s my graft, understand?
To go trolling is one way
though shut out
all my heathens,
all my heathens…
It’s like you don’t even listen sometimes.
I don’t want pomp and circumcision
all night long, understand?
But later, I see your handprint appearing
on the glistered mirror
and it’s like garbage day again.
I can’t halt the weaving procession
of fever dreams like you can,
so they just keep on weaving,
cleaving to my entrails like weird ticks.
Coming down with the sleeping sickness…
The overall silence, unsettling.
By the table, not very tall, and unusable.
To sit I could climb… Noticed
a splash of color back in the trees.
Dread… Felt certain… They could see us…
Someone so remotely a person.
Any movement or sounds coming,
no reply feeling, driving away.
What if there was a body?
Away from the debate,
behind the wheel, my senses keyed up.
Full of clothing and dread.
A third against the window…
Here we feel for rope…
Two-bit tropes, lack of fancy,
upwards on a steep grade.
Muscle memory, relax and fade.
The last of the great unpaid internships.
As we once presumed…
There was no window,
only a minute aperture where
a needle of light came through.
How lost are we? How defeated?
Lips that can only shape hymns
to a broken sun. Meanwhile…
A category of aches…
Believe in the crash. Pictures, sweetly…
The gravel bed… Harbor of our undoing…
The doing spread sinewy fingers
towards a dull heaven. Outlasted…
Diligent fire marches along the rope.
We leave in pieces
or else combusted.