The only quote that will matter in ‘murican hindsight, 20–20. JB nailing the struck-out soul of a certain hysterically mendacious society to the sub-par drywall of a house of cards, just a slight breeze away from collapsing for good.
This Lifetrip takes Us to all compass points, perennial peregrinations predisposed to suspense. We drive the parts of the Journey that We can, with a shaky steering wheel that, more often than not, moves counter-clockwise. Counter-intuitive: nowsabout, Our COVIDacious disposition.
The public Universe is an unknowable murk, as We cavort with the same palmful of people. Together with the selected few…
Returning to normal when normal was, and still somewhat is, purely abnormal?
We must rush while We wait, nerve-needling torrents of watching ‘murica so much less than great, propelling towards an obvious future that keeps the same problems rolling on, like pink slimed meat glopping down some anguished conveyor belt in the sweatshop factory of settled mediocrity. Lookaround.
See the smothered souls, hindered hearts, crushed capacities. Do not: let this creeping cavalcade of confusion squander the immense growth You have made. Even as growth can feel more like stasis, or, perhaps, an ever-expanding tumor.
Hope is as scary as a…
Dear Prime Mover,
I see you rushing, like a fast moving creek after snowmelt, down our cracked cement walkway, a fiercely efficient purpose woven into your mud-brown eyes. Your chopstick frame probably gets so much exercise like this, who needs a fucking gym membership. Your mandatory Prime cap is made less corporate generic by the addition of a favorite rock band button pinned to the bill. You clutch a blue and white colored package under your left arm like an ace running back would hold a pigskin, storming towards the end zone of our off kilter mailbox. Touchdown, but…
within the fourwall confines
of whatever is lucky
to be called inside
we can train a laser beam gaze
on every subtle surface left undusted,
every carpet fiber missvacuumed,
every wall splotch left to fester
like a benign tumor,
and those of us who self-reverentially
call ourselves poets
can train a laser beam gaze
on every cryptic quatrain,
every ambiguous haiku,
every head-scratching sonnet
and actually speak
to the pandemified masses
who have no time for books
and lack the energy for our verses
we can aim our Cloroxed pens
at the heart of their…
How wtf weird, this weirdass world
Of once again touch again
Random things, barely glanced surfaces
And subtle countertops, the odd park post
That holds doggie shit bags.
We did not want to touch it
For so long, that our fingers became accustomed
To only the uttermost familiar: whatever lurked,
Dustmite-gathering, in the bubblish confines
Of home, where no mightbelethal Virus
Could plant His predatory microbes,
And lay waste to formerly robust humans
With eager joy, plus a statistical advantage.
The Devil that incites such glee
is the Pandemic inside you and me:
adherence to what we can never…
tw: jus w8. I will likely pull the trigga.
go figga. millions of fists are made airborne:
cuz our springtime gets bigga.
Trigger figure: sheer thumb profile,
pointed like a doberman snout spotting prey,
+ index finger is a perfectly straight road.
this image is a guncock, the coiled cobra
of a bullet delivery vessel
just waiting for the Word.
Air quality warning:
Do not even attempt to breathe this mourning.
No more slow dawn refreshers, the sun a basketball
Raising itself to capture the horizon.
We start sobbing even earlier now.
The sun is a scuffed basketball,
dis poem bars entry
with steelclad bars
to those with luxury cars
get a busted pass
instead you rich fucking twat
and never get fars.
Thissing on pars
with counting stars
uno por uno.
Count up each and every notion,
catalog them religiously
in the universe of your cerebellum.
Our single planet has been taken for granite-
When it actually combusts dust.
dis topia:. “Topos,” from the original Greek place,
and dis place is a paradise defaced, crater pocked with scars
that no collective reckoning can erase
in the earnest misenergy of stock market chase.
Toss me the replicant, replicated
Inadequate duplicate, pretensing
To be more than just
So much of dis life
Is a genuine fake:
An underthought cubic zirconia
Of shitty trials and forced denials,
Litter-piles of grief plus disbelief
That this Era can do us no better.
Forget her. She would have dumped
Your cynical ass before long.
Tis not wrong
To feign optimism,
It just hurts beatdown bigger
When our Hope segues far too long
And morphs into certainty.
Scamander: thru life.
take a lasereye gander. perhaps: have a serpentine meander.
Engage in sum kinda nocturnal pander.
Time trespasses: with the slither of a subtle salamander.
my head is scratched, shaking off fake news dander.
Sure, they will run out of prophets to slander,
maim, and murder, and everyone else just
bogus views, editorial bruise:
another daze work, shoulda kept pressing
scamander: thru life.
bear hug the hopeful rainbows
of street-based strife.
every single poet is just nail-gnawing, plus cutting
through a bloated roast of lies
with the sharpest ginsu knives.
Rampant recorder of a riven world that always shoots a tractor beam of Hope.