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.
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.
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.
The week of my many happy returns
plays in reruns. Sometimes, it’s good
to have minor, though persistent,
aches traipsing within the self.
It makes for a more compelling landscape.
And cigarette smoke is declaring its supremacy
in the air where strangers practice deference.
It’s our policy to reject policy.
Cold water skims the surface
of what some would call folk wisdom.
I procured these fat and quivering letters
to make a new word for “delinquency,”
a scheme to which some were privy,
and that was my achievement of the week,
the week of my many happy returns.
Shyly, I stomp upon the burial urns
containing my filial piety.
Shyly, I seek the furnace where
I’m to burn posterity.
Call me a menace, maybe,
and I’ll whip the shipshape out of you.
I came not to destroy, but defuse.
Someone told me
once upon a time
“Let the light in.”
So I did, and the light
turned my domicile
upside down, spilled
all over the furniture
and floors, stained
the walls, and generally
made a mess of everything.
So, not really angry,
turned the light out,
and the light stood
fuming in the street.
I locked my doors,
drew the curtains,
just to drive the point home.
I haven’t seen the light.