Spring is a most gorgeous disorder.
The creamy residue at the border
of delight makes for a slippery walk.
Let’s just talk about something.
Difficult ice chips the glass my hand savors.
I have all the flavors of the rain
committed to memory, that pale asylum.
Who could, at a time like this,
feel anything resembling glum?
The gray goes bright with thin strokes
of orange and rose. Between us
grows a warm, slow river of tears.
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,
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.
Stripped of resonance,
I shall in spring melt
with the snow and be absolved
for once in my brief tenure.
I haven’t decided yet
on how I shall inure myself
to the knowing, prodding fingers
fixing to unstitch my bones.
There’s a price for loneliness,
as one can expect. Sometimes
it’s a pine box, while others,
it’s a great big headache
plunging you to extremes.
How is it even in dreams I still get wet?
Consider me a setback,
or a bled relic,
or an overzealous underachiever,
and I’ll return crying over spilled milk.
is an oft-neglected blossom,
therefore these paper dry petals
at the front door of America.
We sure do like our whiplash, don’t we?
Likewise this dinner of crimson
ostensibly placed before us
by the omnipotent. Nothing
is quite as free as the blood which flows
arbitrarily from a bullet-ridden chest.
The rest of us get to get on with living,
but at what price?