What depth does the foundation
of my bastion of atoms
crack at?

The adversary,
that nefarious nature
laughing madly throughout the ages,
knows the cracks by heart
I'm told.

He could speak of the stones ground
to dust under the glacier of my soul
for days without repeating himself.

Then he has to know I'm a sucker for romance.

I hear a low hum constantly.

Imagine diamonds falling
in slow motion,
facets catching light,
soundtracked by
Whiter Shade of Pale.

I've long since mastered
the subtle art of getting sidetracked.

I'm also told younger generations
can hear electricity or something.
Still doesn't account for the hum
because the fridge sounds
like talk radio.

The night sky is so far beyond
being described by some
primitive technology such as language.

I fall in love with her over and over.

My lips remember her feet
in every sip of anything.

Over and over.

"Never been one for dancing"
would be carved into my headstone
if it weren't for the fact that
my grave was robbed of it's
distant dreary locality by the
winding rattlesnake of a path
that I now stumble down.

It isn't me who whistles
that tune you can't quite taste the name of,
even as it dances on the tip of your tongue.

I promise.

I promise this is homage paid to
whichever lofty lord or lady
decides to descend from
their alabaster irrelevance
and keeps the change in wind
direction to their ******* self.

It's not oxen driven off a cliff
or anything, but in this economy
it will have to do.

You mumble your myriad mantras.

The hissing mysticism crescendos.

The whistler switches the octave.

Me; dizzy again, ******* off the tip
of a cryptic world with a pristine grin
as the dense twisting mists of mystery
beginning to drift betwixt the...

The whistling fades.

Tricks of the wind.

Never.

The hardest thing I have ever
attempted in my 30 years has been
keeping my grip on the serpent's tail
as it spirals up into infinity.

This candle that burns before me
is dedicated to the times it slipped
from my fingers and I was
reacquainted with the dirt I
had forgotten would embrace me
like my great-grandmother used to.

Wax in the bowl,
supple dark.

A single syllable slides out of somewhere.

Another candle.
Another heart softly beating.
until it isn't.

It's disgustingly unfair, I know.
But...

Visions,
smoke rings and grocery lists,
ovaries to kicks;
prisons of genetic streaming.

Kings dream of thieves
and thieves dream of
learning shinier schemes.

Laugh when the moon
sings eternally.

Laugh when spoonfuls of sense
are lifted by my shaking hand.

Laugh when anyone spits into
the abyss forever at their feet.

Laugh when the prismatic facsimiles
of mastery are scattering in the winds of change.

Laugh like it's the last cadaver stacked.

No scavengers.

No glass to crack.

No Saturn's curse.

None of that.

So laugh.
Laugh like the mad *******
you act like only exist
in past saturdays spent
in the bastion that was your grandmother's backyard.


Laugh.
Please, for ****'s sake, laugh.

de-focus.
being alone as a kid
in a parking lot is poetry later.
de-focus, please.

hope is deep, i know.
the lack of it is worse.

Suffering is a hovering
mother ship made of cheap tissues
hardened by ***** spilled
in shame and shadow
by (fill in the blank).

It's a crumbling mobile home
awaiting the day it's replaced
by the space it defamed
with it's sloppy symmetry.

We could raze it with a lazy
string of syllables, but we...

We flicker; pixels on the screen
of a digital camera discovered in a yard sale
under the tyrant-sun of a southern summer saturday.
"I'll give ya four for it.", we mutter to the resplendent deity sipping her ice tea from amber pressed glass in a neon pink plastic lawn chair.

The ice clinks in her glass
and the cicadas answer for her
and I think to myself that this has to be a dream,
that the Japanese have a term for the sound cicadas make that is infinitely more fun than "crepitation".

zing-zing-zing.

I'm laying on the floor of some kitchen
ive never been in and can't here a ******* thing besides the electricity coursing through the endlessly twisting-turning wires hidden just beneath the drywall.

I'm actually not anywhere at all.
writing from a...

I like destroying what I create sometimes.
It's easier than never finishing something,
sometimes.