I used to be big
in the dust jacket scene.
I had things on my mind
too bearable to properly endure.
Any given Sunday
was the crux of my personal creed.
I could read the writing on the wall
in six languages and emerge unscathed.
I wore my heart as a hair-shirt.
I managed to let everyone
and myself down, and still do to this day.
I had a way of putting wonder to shame.
I woke up without
any recollection of my name
or how I came to acquire it.
There was a lump in my throat,
and once I swallowed it,
my throat came undone.
Tomorrow, things will proceed vibrantly
and according to more reliable principles
than those which have so far
pinched the skin of the age.
At long last, a new page
in the development of the human psyche,
but what’s that it’s hiding up its sleeve?
Something sinister and pulverizing?
The latest phase of our desensitizing ritual
has given all of us a new nothing to sneeze at.
We live merely vicariously,
and that, half-assedly.
Within the alcoves of spring,
dispiriting whispers have begun to gather…
Bluntly, somebody aspires
to what height forgotten
in the hoary mouth of history.
I turn the mystery down
for senseless surety, living it up
and living my life with burnt fingers.
Like the odor of cat piss, apathy lingers
in my inner gears. I am moved
by marvels other than the ones
we see in travel blogs.
How insidious the moon tonight
with its ocher glow.
Conundrum follows conundrum,
Lately, little disappointments
rumble through the nowhere space
where I’ve laid to rest my good intentions.
Information retention is on hold
and/or sold out. I urge everyone not to blink.
Something cynical this way comes,
and shit, is it furious!
I’ve had it with these never-ending forays
into the morass of baseless assumptions
which has steadily formed around this,
our Zeitgeist. Sometimes,
I wish I were criminally insane,
and others. Today, however,
I wish I were a hydrogen bomb.
Property values virtue-less,
woe-laden chemical fixation,
and dictatorial models.
I peddle only what’s authorized.
Learning to live with life demonized
and kept under glass.
Can someone pretty please
pass the string of lingering bullets?
Care growth is a cobbled-together hulk
of differing flesh, enmeshed
within the fabric of future perfect tense.
Struggle this way, and no other.
Bite me, is what I should have said.
Something in the way
she moves me out of sight-mind.
It’s like perdition to my bottled heart.
A rumbling, existential fart
progresses through the stations
of the cross and into my nasal cavity.
That’s life or something.
Look it up, not down.
Admittedly, my psychological landscape
is a slum these days, so
it isn’t any wonder why
there’s rioting in the streets,
dumpsters ablaze, and shards of glass
scattered like rose petals
along the sidewalks.
TEDTalks can’t save us anymore.
My blood’s gone bad for a while.
It’s looking for a new role to fill.
Within certain limits,
all the breakable stuff
that fills the space of a life
can be organized into a suburb.
Of course, my-word-against-yours
looms above like a sinister parasol.
This is where action and reaction
coincide after all, where the heart
becomes a carnivore, where seasons
wither drastically. Time to send
my integrity to the cleaners.
I’m feeling meaner and more
nebulous than ever, dizzy
with depth, et cetera.
My abstractions silently come
to the realization that they totally
lack substance. The running joke
I aspire to be will soon outpace me.