how do you look at your phone
and not scream with every cell
in your body?
the kind of scream you hear
aboard a landing 737
between the second unexpected
roll to the left
and the cold indifferent ground.
our reality is the back window
of a ash grey Mercedes left
in the path of France's
2019 May Day Protest
and I havent quite figured out
exactly what the Louisville Slugger
is or all of what's written
on it actually says;
I tried, but I don't believe
I could even make it out
if I did speak French.
I don't.
the ash smashes the windows.
I know.
this, of course, is doggeral.
this, is me, the writer whose
dodgy skill level he himself
brought up to distract
from the dodgy skill level
that he himself brought up.
the blinking red light
on an answering machine
in a late 90s living room
in the suburbs of Anywhere, America
will keep on blinking until the
End-of-All-Things takes...
There are rooms in the rooms
in this one.
Quarter Moon resembling
the blade's edge of a curved
skinning knife held
over all of our heads.
flesh, meat?
meat, flesh?
steel reflecting gleaming steel
reflecting in the blood covered
floor of some abatoir.
best of luck to you All.
someone loves you.