everything you shout
            is a shame—

no time to hesitate, now

if you read scripture
you’ll get the picture
pen flowing hemoglobic ink
escaping from fissures

i saw a peddler
            back-peddling
while hail slowly rose above him

he was revered by no one
            and the closest thing
i have ever seen to a god

            or goddess yet—

your jackets are stained
your t-shirts are wet

and if this rain keeps
            falling
we’ll either have to
let all our loved ones
                        drown

or build a new ark—

if time flips the
                        hourglass
and the sun can cure
            wretched eyesight

then i’ll wear the most
comedically-shaped mask,
            disguising tragedy

because there’s no way
            one can look at you
torn to shreds,*

                        (confetti ribbon
                        with no party and no one to
clean up the mess

           [underpaid
             overture
             overshared,
             hysterical
             harpsichord])

*the way you slip and stumble,
                        float and fall (ad nauseam),

and keep a straight face.

You’ll never know a person fully
until you can sit down
and eat a mountain of salt with them

ask Willamina

well, we devoured it, hun

and pardon me,
may I be excused from the table?
I’m feeling ill

I’ll come back for seconds
once I’ve finished digesting.

My cellular device—an outdated
flip phone—took a shit
when I needed it most,
but right before it did
I managed to take down 17
contacts, lest I lose them
forever:

some lovers, a couple
family members, many
old friends (a few I don’t
even like anymore)

so now I have this post-it
note, full of names and numerals
and I’m squarely where I was
before.

There came a point
in my young adult life
where I stopped noticing
the seasons change
unless something observably dramatic took place:

“Oh—the leaves have all fallen,
when did that happen?
Oh—it’s snowing, oh my Blah!
Now it’s melted away and rainy,
now it’s stifling-hot and humid;
Gzuz save us all!”

So I stepped back
and started watching them again
like you do when you’re a kid;
I simplified things, but I was still
only watching, until…

I made the change
and became them.

is breathing down my neck
telling me all the things i do not want to hear
from another realm

i tell him: i’m not having it!
and he gets pissed
but i don’t mind much

because after all: YOU
GOT BEAT!!—
as well as being dead,
so if stone is in any way etched
better—just give up,
and let it crumble.

and that’s the long
and the short of it

long story short
long story longer:

when you were younger
and you had that hunger
free will, free spirit
now you don’t even bother

your personal armageddon
is headin yer way
and the world will keep turning
until it doesn’t—
axes evaporated
the blood of the virgins
and the castrated—
making a mockery
of your memories:

first love and fragile friendships,
bravery now unbeknownst to you

a slow afternoon walk
with your mother

the sun to warm you both
birdsong to calm you
blue skies to save you—

now, to travel the planet
try everything twice, thrice
only to realize:

none of it
none of it
none of it

was ever,
and never could be,

enough.

[when the very syllabic pound
            of their name,
just does somethin to ya—

and the mail piles up
            under the slot, collecting ancient dust,
saying in silence: no one’s here.]

The sun is but a frozen ball,
It rises slow or not at all,
Illuminating icy skies,
The early bird’s the bird that dies.

All around us shivery white,
It’s too cold to sleep tonight,
If we freeze before we wake,
We pray the warmth our souls to take.

Breathing short, exhaling phantoms,
Corporal gaunt with unsung anthems,
Shattered glass, embrittled bones,
Teeth chatter over frigid groans.

The air is sharp, it slices through
Anything to get at you,
Don’t look for the shuddering sun,
So close to death we’re better numb.

there’s not much time left—
            it has finally happened:

clothes are worth more
            worn than new

gasoline is more affordable
            than water—

folks of all types, shapes,
            and sizes
have figured this out,
                        at last:

that handheld shiny hard
            death-flingers—
with the slightest movement of
                        the finger—

and the small chunks of metal
            that accompany them—

are easier to come by,
            and to use,

than the pen and the page.

(fresh bodies piled up by their
favorite rivers, each one sworn—
            to the furthest depths
            of their over-extended
            oceanic universe
            imaginations—
they never heard of the sword)

To lobotomize or
cauterize

is this the sequel
or the prequel?

you must confess, this
life’s dyslexic

the more we ‘live’
we see it’s ‘evil’

today started as a good day
giving praise for what God gave

but under blankets
we failed to thank Him

inside His shade
we misbehaved

and if He gave the power to everyone
what did He give to you?

an orphan plagued with misfortune
and no one close to you

so we speak in forlorn secret
to an unborn fetus never bathed

and we call back
down shadowed halls

for an answer He never gave

but when we find Him
we will remind Him
of what He claimed He saved

and we will bind Him
and thus unwind Him
in the bed that He hath made.

Syllables,
three fucking sylla-
bles, goddamn.