City Planning

 

This city, bright and mechanical,

Floating like a flower in an vase

Way up past the skyscraper eyesores.

Surrounding industry.

Inside,

Paths like a Wire Beehive.

Electric pulses

Winding paths

Dropping and rising in the space of petal to stem.

Path termination, kicked out

Into the old air

Far beyond, in the rearview.

Bobbing in the space of nothing.

Drooping a little lower each time.

The city loses its footing

Deflates itself

And the wires uncoil

Falling around the empty field

Under a cloudless sky

At the foot of the steel leviathans.

The monument whimpering with the spasms of a dying animal’s determination,
beyond the rear view's eyes. Imagine, it is still out there, trying.

No Zen Required

 

No sunshine will touch my shadow any longer. They've agreed to keep their distance. Agreed to disagree on some critical matters. Not sure of their relative place in the universe as long as the other is present. I am told they are not willing to compromise on this matter. I've tried to help them find reason, bury the hatchet. Worked out the angles between tripping over myself in the darkened room or hiding my eyes from the burn.

It starts early. I'm dragged to darkness by my shadow. He has lost his sense of proportion. Does not know his strength any longer. Pulls me deeper into the corners of my bedroom. Hides me under another set of light-eating blankets.

Sunshine calls me, but my shadow slaps the phone out of my hand. I have to trust him. I have to stay the course. I must not feel the temptation for warmth. For the outside to let the breeze sneak up and gently hug me. For the sounds of birds to welcome me out into the world.

My shadow, he knows me better than I know myself. The sunshine, radiating off of the sidewalk, zeroing in on my pale frame, it is a destroyer of peace. A bringer of skin rash, scaled flesh, eventual cancers, 

Here in the dark, I'm told I am safe, a proper temperature. I am contained. Controllable.  

My shadow, locking me into an iron tether. We shall never know the world apart from one another.

I try to tell him, light will bond us. He reminds me that vision is not a bond. This, this proximity, under cover of multiple darknesses. Us, alone, held fast to one another and shaking, this is the only true connection. Everything else is a sleight of hand and a trick of vision. Illusory. Disguises not fit for truth.

And here we are, in silence, and I just want to sneak a gaze out the tinted window, to see what might be outside. 

If only I’d let me.

A Rumble at the Open Mic Night

Up from the Sea

Lining my pockets with currency

freshly earned by Judas

Take a pound of the tender flesh

Scar tissue’s exchange rate is bad this week.

Flesh, well kept, never goes out of style

I’m a fish-faced enemy of the people

Lending power limited

Credit score infinite.

Up, sea

Let the current take me

See through the flotsam,

Age-old pollution.

The Fish with three eyes,

Glowing in the twilight and whispering sweet bubble nothings to the casual observer.

I take my financial advice from a Ouija board co-piloted by the atomic bomb and a piece of the real cross of Jesus Christ.

From Up

Come to me, sweet oblivion

Short my stock portfolio and eat the good leftovers.

Let my car run overnight but keep it safe from those who trespass against me.

All of the eggs in the fridge

Bloody with disappointment. The farmer’s crude lament. 

Let each meal swell in the intestines of my friends and foes alike. 

Sweet oblivion, decorate my yard with half eaten plastic wrappers and coffee grounds.

They will say, “that is a choice.” I will agree.

From the Sea Up

I am the Lord of Greater Inconvenience

You shall know my nominal wrath and be left shaking your head like all of the other suckers.

I’m not even going to be the better for it

It’s just a cup of coffee to me. Size medium, not even iced.

It’s all nice.

When the curtain closes

The applause concludes and the sound of shuffling feet 

Dies off in the now-dusty quiet of the stage.

Lights off

and we return to the soil.

 

Confessionals

 

Give me the truth as you see fit, my love.

Break it apart into 12 or 13 manageable pieces

rolling off of the tongue in meaningful slobberings

I know this so well.

Even better than you might, the medicated stumble of a mouth

rife with SAT prep lingo from a bygone era. Paleolithic 

shots of affection across the starboard front of the vessel,

whatever that might imply to our friends in the maritime industry.

Whatever that implies to anyone.

Holy, all that is Holy. Attached to sounds of my spindly flesh’s protests under the currents that guide us into what comes and what may.

I am slurring again, letting the closely inspected colors, neat within the lines, leak out and make a perfectly damn fine picture ripe with blurry hues. 

Everything ends up as shit if I’m not careful these days. With no bags to store it and set it on fire outside the local municipality’s domicile.

Go on, say it like I mean it, self.

Let them know how I really feel, this time.

Mea culpa

 I’ve written nothing this week. Made a new year less like the old year in an unsatisfactory way. Obligations and lists lining my walls. I am a glacier of ideas, melting with the speed of cow fart induced heatwaves. Something will find its way into the stratosphere in due time. You know it and so do I. Give me my wilted plants at the appropriate time.