Year’s end.
Shades collapsed a spell
Amidst nocturne Hex.
Thought wandering back to Diet Coke infusion caffeine memory, goldfish sized. The days where it ends.
Loathing, topspin grim.

Time sprout.
Shades up a touch
Among daybreak incandescence, rooibos serenade, shutting the irrationality switch off.
The days where it begins. Where I learn.
Perhaps I am myself again.

The furnace won’t kick on and my heart is sick. There is no purring or growling from its mechanical insides. The heater, not the heart. Poetry is the cupboard that won’t stay closed, it wants to show you what is behind its shanty stubborn door. The cupboard is heart sick too; with less romantic implications involved. Poetry is the robot that wants to be A.I.
That wants to out perform its human counterparts, and yet empathizes too much with warmly lit LED eyeballs.
Yeah. Sometimes that’s what I think poetry is.

All the US states out of place
Backlit map illuminate my chest and face
Montana near Miami
Florida like Kuwait
White rapid water problems
Suddenly irate.
Three birds drunk on salt water
And a feeling I cannot shake.

For a series of seconds at a time
I catch myself.
Do you catch yourself counting?
mulling over innocuous extravaganza?
Pardoned on proverbial Main Street while adding raindrops to puddles?
Carrying the 3 and wondering so many things!
But mostly
Who turns the lights back on?
When one is swept away.
When we are busy wrapping our most precious belongings and tucking them away for unprecedented purposes.

Now, I can't imagine you've guessed who keeps the lights on.
After all, they were gone before you could blink and Netflix was an afterthought in your dream riddled head.
***** and provocative her wool socks turning you on inhaling burned sage, department store perfume so perfectly autumnal.
More rainfall obliterates electrical transformers, everybody's famed ******.
But who turns the lights back on?