It is to this we clamor,
a nuance lifted above sails,
the pristine wind curtailing flows.
So what it is is what I knows,
a record of the blows I’d taken.
Shaken milk/perpetual stream.
Dreams we have/are.
Had the air soured or had we cringed?
To put an end to the drinking binge,
you championed the hurt we swallowed.
allegiance to the ropes.
Here I gag on the myriad hopes of a generation.
Here I nervously reserve my spoiling brain.
A taste of rain for mourning.
Sputter we this fragment of a song.
Long run vex. We bound in text,
coming up for agony/sighing at random
and fixed in splintered seeing.
The saddest part
is that it never stops raining,
and the rain brings no promise or purpose,
only gray shadows that thrust
thin needles into your chest.
A cold conundrum of a morning
rests on the fields, yielding
its weeping truth
to whomever is brazen enough
to demand it. I’ve relinquished
my hand in the matter.
In return, I receive a smattering
of platitudes haphazardly arranged
upon a cracked porcelain platter.
Who can flourish under these conditions?
Apparitions arise like cries from the horizon
and sulk in the damp, despairing clouds.
I move among them unnoticed,
unsubstantiated, my nerve
negated by nervousness,
my discernment dislocated.
season of the virus
approach in measure.
As for we fold what treasure,
too distinct to name.
Pulling obvious blame
thru yr teeth.
Where’d I learn
to straddle like that?
in the background noise,
we molt and pop.
The remote control loosens.
Now that’s a wonder,
idyllic in its pants,
into and into
the sweatshop haze.
Isn’t the air
a vibrant enough thing?
Listening intently, hazards
a-flash in downy dark,
stark peril pending.
Something about a lending
hand helping puts me on edge,
or so you say. This isn’t, after all,
a two-way street. As in,
my feet are capable of pointing
only in one direction,
and do so of their own volition.
A probable collision is enough
to bring anyone closer together.
Get back to me after I’ve had a chance
to pick the gravel out of my teeth.
Honestly, I’m far too pissed
to go on passing accusations
back and forth among these
rubbery NPC-type gawkers
who flick their tongues and go idle
at the first hint of provocation.
Recent evidence suggests that
whatever is in the water
distills the loftiest of passions
into hopeless blathering.
I’m really not the kind of person
who would take this in stride.
Honestly, I’m far too pissed
to post a warning on my forehead
about what not to do
when the overall hopelessness
of any given situation takes to the street
and assumes the right-of-way.
There isn’t anything quite like it.
The full moon dissolves in silver,
bequeathing us its bad habits.
Still no purpose to the process,
but if purpose is what you seek here,
any input is appreciated.
I hadn’t thought it through.
I hadn’t devoted quite enough attention
to the details as they drifted
through the space between dream and fever.
As the cream of morning rises
to a barren height, light breaks
like a dropped mirror.
Time to memorize the terrors
twisting ’round the gate.
Time to breathe the hatred
into waking. My only wish
is that the quaking in my eyes
subsides so that I can see
in still-life again.
disposition of wax
brain hollow revisited
assume no place
politicize the landfill
the havoc of weekend
merely a symptom
explicit and unexceptional
led to blessed wreck
and peaceful disassembly