(she is unable to appear
in a fashion other than
menacing)
“I find it better
to view life as a
vacation
from oblivion”
(from her purse she
removes and unfurls
a paper umbrella
placing it the vent hole
of her container
of coffee)
“even the worst of it
is pretty cool
when compared with
oblivion”
I despise the elaborate
I detest the ornate
I want to smash glass cabinets
filled with all the precious things
I want to chisel the cartouche
so the names may never be known
I will burry the box holding
everything I’ve lost
In the back
Near the statue
Which marks the location
Of the septic tank
And I will not cry
Nor will I laugh
I will walk away
.
The dead will remain
first
(she unfolds her napkin
blots her lips quickly
mechanically
and lays it upon
her lap)
there is only one thing
which I know to be true
(She sits up straight
scanning the room
rapidly locating
the Exit signs)
the only thing that changes
as we travel through
our lives are the
numbers which confine us
(She smiles at the server
as the menus are delivered
and looks briefly down at them
with the knowledge that nothing
within the blood red leather folder
could ever satisfy her)
and the names of those
for whom we have been
a great disappointment
(opening the menu
she allowed the absurdity
of the candle light
to cause her eyes to sparkle
in the pretense of darkness
imposed upon this luncheon table)
people say that I don’t smile enough
(she makes eye contact
and slips a small
dangerous grin
into the glasses of water
set so closely together)
and also that I seem to miss the point
of small talk
I wanted to say
That we have forgotten to self edit
But I would be wrong
We no longer care to self edit
We have crucified the curator
we have moved or collective bowels
in the hallowed halls of honor and reason
Post truth/pro ignorance
Boy doesn’t this feel good
to shout the strange words professional wrestlers
have brought to our lexicon
I’m an an outcast because I’ve read
The Idiot
But hesitate to lay that title upon my rival
I summon the spirit of Yevtushenko
And stand atop a table
in a sea-side McDonalds
I cry
“So sad a time in which we live
When common decency
is mistaken for valor”
In my heart I feel the shackles
break
it coulda been different
she said
failing to hide an accent
tears
and any number
of past due notices
i remember it all
metal shelves lined
promise of relief from
symptoms of systems
and the ever popular
ennui located in aisle 9
among both types of critter
next to the french auburn twist
(she stifles laughter as her
friend insists on spiritually
depantsing each package
and it’s intention)
which sounds just nummy
something I would wish
to eat
i know it’s not everyday
that the yanks and sox
play it out in the bronx
it just seems like that
sometimes
we all feel the weight
making a living
forgetting to make a life
tip toe away from the places which hurt
decorate dead trees to celebrate birth
and we glow
but it is a nauseating light
battery powered tea candles
without regard for wind
water
elements which exist beyond
our own personal chemistry
the sphere of influence
which draws others close
the jingle of keys in shaking hands
possess a magical power
they change our prisons into homes
inside we sing oh silent night
because the silence is too much
because the candles won’t ever flicker
because time passes
because life is a virus
infecting the perfect body of death
(she shakes her head
keeping her distance
if only to prove entropy
the only law to which
she is subservient)
because blue is the color
of the sky pretending to be innocent
because
after all
it’s only a theory
art is the way
people impart order
upon a universe
in which only chaos
exists
she said
quickly returning her attention
to a luke-warm cup of coffee
which has replaced
the obligatory glass of bourbon
most associated with
a bygone era
her lips part
trust me
she adjusts her top
skewed by the mostly
uncomfortable posture
of time lapping at the hem
just above her waist
it isn’t that i oppose order
or insist upon its lack
rather i understand
certain rules
a laugh is poorly stiffled
before breaking eye contact
sipping her tepid beverage
returning to the table
essentially the mess
only makes sense
only when you step back
far enough
or focus
closely
so closely
that it begins to appear
distant again
her hand drifts uncounsciously
fondling an imaginary chesterfield
and a long empty bottle
she keeps
safely
beyond a horizon
whose gravity
is inescapable
all of it 