I thought that I could think myself to anything
Because the mind is for wishing, but
Wishes are besieged by wants
Taunted by the echoes of the well
Asynchronous haunts

Anxiety smothers reason in the swelter of shelter
Claustrophobic familiarity threatening avalanches
Leaving Matryoshka burial mounds
Piles of broken pylons soaking in puddles of bulk
Beneath the glassy gaze of taxidermied chaos

Calcified Mounds of once-maybe treasure
Form a cavernous regret
Where mite is rite
And the moth is a man of the cloth

He doublespeaks
But one voice is an octave higher

The alto is shaky
The tenor wants to be base
Waving bladed feelers

You bleeding sphinx-heart!
Fool Hunter!

We both just want to know how big this cage is

I rattle the cage and you're cagey and rattled
I won't race on your terms
I can outrun the saddled

A lot of missed writing opportunities
Some days I might think it
But I'd rarely ever write something like
"Diary of cryarrhea"
In some lights it's like a cute Tom Robinsonism
But from most angles it's too cheap to serve as filler
I'd like to think I can gain something by letting loose a little
But too often it feels like farting in church

Thinking about planned obsolescence in nature
Trying to find a way to justify capitalism
Where every act of immediate gratification
Is a crack of the whip
And every lash, every scar
Is accompanied by a token with a price tag
Battered batteries not fit for a landfill
Fat on flattery, pandering to wishing wells
Mad about mattering

Holding mass at a molasses menagerie
Of flypaper families with hourglass salaries
Bending to plastic
The **** from caste to caste is drastic
Might not be able to patch it
Empathetic, but that feeling clashes
With everything we're asked
And everything we're tasked with

It's for the greater good of the individual

She's got fingernails like beetle shells
Lashes like arachnids
Grasshopper cloppers
And the feelers of a healer
Loud as a monarch

She's got a tick
That's gorged itself to grapehood
Her second heart exposed
Like a colostomy bag
Some kind of mystery flag
Rolled up, dipped in kerosene
And stuffed into a bottle of glowworms

Tall tales, wagging tongues
I'm headed west for the vestiges
Unabridging the hints in yesterdays messages
Soul scavenging mannequin droll
From the costume jewelry of conversation
Deep in the hard drive of stone faced agony

I am gripped by the phantom limb of a nubbed Esau
Vexed by Elijah's wrathful honeybear
Haunted by the indignance of martyrs
Quoting crickets and sowing thickets
I can't find who brokers the barters