(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
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
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
put on point shoes
and tip toe away
from places
that hurt
dream about a
brazilian butterfly
desperately wing flapping
its spastic attempt
to make a difference
as though
fluttering passionately
could change
everything
anything known
something yet to be
outside the sphere
of certainty
where life is not
a virus infecting
the perfect body
of death
the primary illusion
of free will mandates
cold to be the color
of a perfect sky
masquerading as a
less than innocent blue
imprisoned by perception
whose keys dangle from hooks
beneath a sign which reads
home sweet home
nut-brown angels
serve god frozen
daiquiris while
vacationing in
south beach
sun and sand
maybe a bit of
wind surfing
fending off
upper cretaceous
grifters hawking
time-share-satori
and tabloid evidence
of the existence of
elvis is a damned
shot better than
coping with all of
the supplication
the hollow voices
supposing the will
of the almighty
the obsession with
death and voodoo
totems which burn
the hands of believers
and skeptics alike
neither wise enough
to witness the true
miracle of gustav’s
scallops wrapped
in bacon
all of it 