,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)



<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares

What you doing?

I warned you, we both know you ****** it up.

Even though these hills have eyes, they can still feel real lonely,
when perceived from these crystal castles that we’ve built,
above plastic palm trees, these people can seem real phony,
when seeing the bogus smiles shown through their botox lips,

clasping the latest fashion handbag accessory,
having every material possession that’s any sign of wealth,
grasping at anything that adequately fakes actual authenticity,
slowly rolling Bugattis casually, got good credit but bad health,
possessing a staggering abundance of plush slush funds,
but lacking anything that has any real substance of self,

& I see it all so well, from my place up in the hills, that it’s felt,
it hurts because most only care about vanity & nothing else,

meanwhile back in my life I rise when the sun sets,
I get up with the dark moon feeling like a cartoon protagonist,
acting on set in a surreal scene out of tune & out of character
other actors are acting too, but they’re just talking ****t,
over eager underachievers with with no directive or narrative,
these amateurs are irritating don’t know why I put up with it,

why’d I come down from my house in the hills,
I’ve got nothing to prove, the truth always comes to the light,
especially when everyone’s gone home, & I’m alone,
poolside view wide, just Me Myself & I,

I wish I had something extra epic to say here,
I want to change the world by writing the perfect verse,
hoping if I get my 10,000 hours in I’ll master my craft,
state the perfect fact & finally get the respect that I deserve,

& maybe, just maybe, by doing so I’ll be able to successfully,
change this world for the better before it gets any worse,

sure is cold up here, staring out this window with a view,
sure is cold in here, heart burning up inside trying to stay cool,
guess it’s all just point of view, even though my view is skewed,
as distorted as it might be, it still appears to be my truth,

& it’s got a beautiful view too, no pretendin' it’s tremendous,
here I write all my truth, to you, dedicated to these lifelines,
like Santiago in Hemingway’s The Old Man & The Sea,
till my sun sets in Sun Valley so tired been running for lifetimes

running & writing,
& writing, & writing, & writing, & writing,

trying, to create the cure for society’s ills,
like The Cancer Research Institute or AEBi in Israel,
replying, to fill, every lost soul that writes me their will,
lost souls, in these lost hills, that got everything except healed,
sand castles in the sand, wash away with waves & are rebuilt,
in a house on stilts, which sits on the hill where it was built,
in a room with a view, where I see everything except for myself,
stairs, ascend down, sun down, stare out, see the full town lit,

lazy lights twinkle,
like the fallen stars they hold,
success & failure both only a stone’s throw away,
so I suppose that’s just the way it goes,

bones, buried under this scorched earth,
infidels on Indian burial grounds,
deaths televised live with no attention paid to still births,
& yeah that’s the truth, & yeah the truth hurts,
but karma’s got a way of catching up with us no need to rush,
we all get what we deserve sooner or later for better or worse,

& since that’s the case I’m just going to stay here at my place,
in the hills where I hide from the world & I write my poetic will,
even though up here it sometimes gets so cold,
my heart feels like it’s froze, going to explode & I get the chills,
wondering if my death will go unnoticed if I die tonight,
but someone’s always watching in this city so I doubt it will,

see these hills have eyes, still they can still feel real lonely,
when perceived from these crystal castles that we’ve built,
above plastic palm trees, these people can seem real phony,
when seeing the bogus smiles shown through their botox lips…

∆ LaLux ∆
THHT3
9/9/19