each precipice proves
more precipitous
than the last.

do the games get harder or
are they not games anymore at all?
either way this isn't fun.
a stupid game if it is one.

thoughts subject
to centrifugal force
whip around
like the wet
of a hurricane
emptying the center,
getting nowhere.

the teeth chasing the tail.

centrifugal thinking
gets you stuck just
like the fair ride.
whipping round
and round, in
the same place
the entire time.

not meaning to
smile but
inertia's
pulling apart
the corners
of your face.
and you end up
where you started.

at least the top
spins in a direction
wobbling with
personality and
sometimes jumps
off the edge
just because.

no the top
isn't stuck spinning.
the top knows to fall down,
knows it cant spin forever,
eventually has to settle on a side,
eventually has to make up it's mind.

there are no sheep.
just wolves with
sheepish tendencies,
each boasting the
ability to bite.
-
rust falls in
dusty flakes
only to make
room for new.

paint chips.
wilted petals.
baby teeth.

expelled
replaced
by something
bigger and better.

when there's
only room for
the one of 'em.

a mushroom doesn't grow
on top of another mushroom
but next to it.

quiet now.
just the cold caress
of the breeze left.
no more salty
sweat or tears.

rustfree, scratchproof.
temporarily titanium.

until
an agonizing internal groan
like industrial sabotage
of factory machinery.
gears grind and steam moans.
everything jerks to a halt.

the mechanic is a cannibal.
they're all bloodsuckers really.

no noble stairs around here anymore.
just elevators, that only lift you up
when they get to come along.
not like stairs at all.

we're starched,
ironed, tailored
and hemmed,
expunged of
the extraneous.
cut down to size,
sprayed through
a stencil, and
molded to fit.
stamped and
cookie-cut,
branded
and broken.
no place for a square
in a city of circles.
no, no place at all.

there is little substance in
affinity marked by proximity.
it is no true measure of
commitment or loyalty but
merely a constant exchange
of fabricated facades. such
is the folly of friendship.

whether nature ever
actually achieved compassion,
it has surely since been corrupted.
emotionally encapsulated,
acting as if not to
affect those in the
evading environment.

selfish must have proven
more efficient than selfless.
the superiority of self priority
and depraved self devotion.

still it doesn't seem sufficient,
at least not to me.

the poet mustn't
doubt himself.
that is a job
that ought be
left to others.
and the poet need not
fear for lack of doubt.
the doubters will
take to the job
with thrilling
efficiency.

there are many a person
anxiously awaiting the
opportunity to doubt,
to attempt to transfer
the debt of their own
doused dreams onto
someone else.


We must do,
leave the judging
to others.

lives are smears of color
across the world canvas.

small smudges,
pixels in a picture,
impressionist dots of color
interacting with the various
other dots of color
around them,
affecting and
adjusting the
overall hue.

one big painting
painting itself.

such is our significance
as self aware art.

we may only get one brush stroke,
but we can nudge what direction it goes.