I’m a snowflake falling through night’s mute darkness
landing in the prismatic puddle of gasoline
left by the fumes of your car’s exhaust
collecting on top of the gravelly grime
of an Amazon fulfillment center
where the snow settles but never sticks
in the ascending puddles behind your car.

When the cold rain enters
it makes me remember
lifetimes of past Decembers
and their nasty embers.
Each drop a designer
momentary reminder
of a recreational resigner's
unchecked timer.
I am not reborn
in the rain's misty scorn
I see Satan's horns
in rain clouds formed.

Sensory recall
makes me fall
into the needle
of a lifestyle fetal
crying for my mommy
of a ****** haunting
my past life is flaunting
through raindrops upon me
their ripples are bombing
my mentality modeling
of the unguarded godly.

Inclement
in descent
in cement
mixed with saline
so I may dream
maiming Maybelline
makes me made to scream
drowning in memory
separating what's ahead of me
with the possible death of me
after a moment of leveling
water brings devil's wings.

I guess I'm like this forever
mainlined or severed
would've been much better
than stuck in the nether
between order and chaos
mortars of raindrops
show where my aim lost
and the insane cost
of the water in the syringe
raining into my veins
so I cry and I cringe
when it rains all the same.

Travel through the viscous chaos
super Alice uber alles
nationalism and competition disappear
mad hatter brain matter
wondering where’s the next fix
loser palace user malice
building bars around bridges
syrup sanity hear no humanity
off in the foggy distance
mushroom madness Mario Mathers
losing touch with reality
Cheshire Cat **** mired map
leads through a maze with no end.

Amongst a hedgerow a vulpine den
lies parallel to the road and ranches
in a burrow where the residents lay
between man's best friend and vermin.

Imperial hunters track serpentine paw prints
that lead underground; a temporary home.
A permanent grave; a house for humans
must be built here, even if it means

eviction by execution
foreclosure by fire.

Smoke billows before American Foxhounds
drool dripping from canines; saliva trails lead
to their master's boots; the tactical militant kind.

A hollow existence is paved over
cementing a subterranean legacy.
Now the smoke billowing before the foxhounds
exits through the fireplace rising from the grave.

They meet every Thursday
They're a worship team
They meet every Thursday
To develop a worship scheme
To show how the Lord leans
Through musical means

They meet every Thursday
That's not quite church day
But it's their rehearse day
So they don't play the first way
Which would be the worst way
When worshipping on the church stage

They meet every Thursday
To rehearse their music
They've got the Holy Spirit
And there's no way they'll lose it
They'll continue to use it
To save brothers from bruises
They know what the truth is
And they want to exude it

They meet every Thursday
So surely I even heard they
Come in on their birthday
They say it's worth praise
Not of their own ways
But of the Lord's grace
Glorifying Him is first place
So they meet every Thursday

I was miserable at 16;
math problems were
hypnotic hieroglyphs
lulling me to sleep
adding up fleeting years
until I was only myself
through transitive property.
All that seems so far away
now that a baker's decade
divides me from that negativity
—which is a plus,
no longer subtracting
from the remainder
exiting the X axis
shifting my gaze
to smokestacks on the horizon
protruding into the Y;
mysteries postponed
carry over into adulthood
pondering the permutations
of possibilities
had those equations been solved.
Nonetheless, I remained undefined
igniting infernos
to create smoke I could explain
like steam rising from the spoon
building facsimiles of smokestacks
multiplying scattered wildfires
until new generations
had smokestacks to stare at.
All that behind me
I've driven further down the road
yet the smokestacks
seem as far away as ever;
they never changed, I did,
adjusting to the variables
and my deciphering deficiency
enjoying each point on the line
especially when it seems like
I'm earlier in my sequence;
momentary minuses show me 16
and far off smokestacks
down a road untraveled
eager to accept my driver's license
so I could factor into the problem.

Referees mismanage oversight
incorrect calls lower credibility
faith in justice dissolves into the ice
agency is taken into padded hands
vigilantes slash and spear.

Hip check leads to cross check leads to fist check
malignant hostility boils over
leather armor is removed
interphalangeal joints meet mandible
type O negative paints a jersey
haymakers take bizarre trajectories
to avoid helmets and visors
the face is homebase to ingrain pain.

Violence subverts gamesmanship
players must be taken off ice
to be put on ice
otherwise brawls become overabundant
and destroy the integrity of the sport
yet each transfer of agony is euphorically satisfying
—considering the context—
so fist fairs continue for the foreseeable future
we organize an impenetrable perimeter
once we've acclimated to penalty kills.