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.
Distracted by the pangs,
not a moment in sight
to advance splinters.
astride the weight of the womb.
Jurisdiction matters in our life across the hall.
The wall reaches out to touch
where our faces have been,
and in a manner of speaking.
Nothing was my discovery.
It might be that description matters less than I credit it
and that these perspectives are but coarse strokes of brush
that manifest an unsteady portrait.
It’s true my eyes are water
and so too my fingers, thrumming
hard gloss of book
while energy degrades energy
beneath a beguiling moon.
ivory waters lavish.
of prize to ravish
and demure withering.
Implosions of description.
the untenable right,
leaves fortitude first,
a riddle of spit.
We undo by delay
the frightening tryst
Certain of our days.
Where limit our scope?
Somewhere in the flood
lies the substance of our striving.
I never rested content
in driving it home. Getting
to the meat of the poem,
one finds it just a bit spoiled.
Too accurate. I too
have toiled among torpid tongues.
This may be the last time
I assume this vivisectionist’s
cloak and dagger. I’ve paid
too greatly for this swagger you see.
Only now does my heart unfold
to reveal its truer nature,
the one the tavern clatter
confirms. From his mirror,
my polar opposite affirms
his commitment to keeping
the game rigged in his favor.
The flavor of the week is burnt retinas.