volte face
pivot away from
the old place
where ***** mirrors
accentuate
cracks in the skin;
too wide or
too thin.

hymns from a chasm
that sits in between
they


and


them.

without turning away
dreams (yours and ours)
will fall limper,
whimper,
simmer under hot sun
as they're hung from the ramparts
gnarled and ragged
like the crest of a defeated army

volte face
pivot away from
the dead space
where bruised silences
accentuated
the cracks in your brain;
too much in
not enough sane.

and you will write a million """Poems"""
and they will be about as useful
as a blind man's reading glasses.

and all these gods are in one place
conspiring and -
all your efforts are misplaced
whining like an -
off-key note in a seraphic choir
lamenting a -
weekend's bitter aftertaste.

here's a thing you can't avoid:
a war of worlds on a bedroom floor
the house is kept unlocked at night
and a crosswind billows through the door.

...and all his questions are ignored
he chipped his teeth cause he was bored.

we wrote missives to a shallow grave
dug with musicals we rearranged
to fit the arc we fashioned here
as we waltzed atop the sinking pier.

...I am prone to switching off
So I will never turn you on.

I don't look like that anymore.

I grew.

I grew tired
I grew a white collar from my neck
I grew to know you
I grew too close to cynics
I grew out of my skin
and into someone else's
I grew angry at my reflection
I grew tired.

I grew up.

the department's lack of transparency under secretary [redacted]'s leadership is ruining our reputation. wounds still fresh, still raw from the steaming hot poker of [redacted], his insistence on [redacted] with all the [redacted] has left the cabinet muddied and in a state of disrepair; the dismantling taking place under scrutiny of the public eye, whose line-of-sight is unwavering upon the heart of the issue. being as he is in a position of influence, of power, [redacted]'s behaviour is deplorable and inexcusable, and the liberal use of [redacted] resources to stretch his spidery fingers into the forbidden *** of [redacted] is unprecedented, even as we as a people grow used to controversies in a similar vein. thick skin is now a prerequisite of living in our political climate. representatives from [redacted]'s leadership group are yet to make any statements on the issue, though it is -- from a partisan standpoint -- abundantly clear that if an apology or explanation is not issued soon, the young republicrat's reputation will combust in a display of unglory; splintered shards of a once-polished and spotless reputation flying in different directions across the [redacted]. [redacted] has landed himself in hot water. we'll soon know how severe the burns are.

"back to a wall at the broken glass ball where ones fed up with it all not just feeling small

a twitching of cheeks it's been this way for weeks and is this what he seeks? the cellar door creaks

bed fully-clothed you and your betrothed and the people you loathed a stones-throw from homegrown despair alone

i take no time to finish this rhyme exorcising the grime accruing in the back of my mind pure stream-of-consciousness line-by-line at 12:29

need a passport to get to the kitchen sink need the friends i don't have for a chat and a drink need to turn off my brain in order to think need a rope and a stool pull me back from the brink

i'm collecting read receipts today. thanks for your help."

*Seen Mon 14:42

if i were to pen an autobiography
it would only be a line(?) long
because here not much of interest goes on
but if for some reason you'd like to get to know me:

"an acute lack of self awareness,
and an astute sense of irony."

you are all:
children
green
naive
unprepared

community full of previously coddled and heretofore coddling parents with their doting Yesses and ever-so-rare Nos. A poem, my good reader, is not any old thought; it's not a question, a "when-will-my-husband-return-from-war?" simple concern, but how a lyric tangles itself up in the bramble of a rhythm:

Just
Like
This.
See How the Words
Jump From One Spot Of Your Brain
To the Next
As Though They're Panning In Stereo
Such Illusory Text.
And Notice the Rhyme
Injected Therein?
I Would Keep Complaining
But the Bit's Wearing Thin.

one either has a way with words, or they should do away with words, but not before they try. i am not a poet, but i do, at the very least, try.

please try, tee-why.