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Matt Proctor Mar 2014
The familiar complaints, the cozy ones.
Ambling through the hedges of grievance.
I never know what I'm feeling at any one time.
Usually more of the same. Bragging my inadequacies.

Winter is coughed from the addled coalsmoke sky.
Chimneys chugging ash. Clumps of duress.
Blake's choir of children lying in a heap.
Noontime streetlamps regaled in holly and poinsettia.

A ***** moss enters from the vacant lot, cautiously.
The homeless have been scraped from under the bridge.
Geese call and flee. The snow is flakes of ash,
the sun finally burnt itself down.

Disused meanings are flushed. A carefully wrought
vocabulary we have disabused ourselves of.
Crumbling monologue.
A new grammar forms. Light and Motion dances

from the screen. A panoptican of laughs and serenades.
Sometimes there is a magazine no one has a
subscription to. It is the digest of a human heart
dressed to the nines in thorns and flame.
Joshua Sanders Jul 2019
how come you let that coal smolder there?
there right in your chest
doesn't it hurt?
doesn't the smoke sting your eyes?
i put mine out
smothered it out
and when it tries to start again,
as it does sometimes when the leaves start to turn in autumn,
when the sharp breeze unsettles them about,
i do it again
it gets easy enough,
easier every year

so go ahead and put it out
it's not doing you any favors
burning like that
the smoke's just gonna sting
stop you from seeing straight
it just hurts and leads to nothing
it doesn't lead to anything anyway
and it stinks
and it offends everyone you pass on the street
they can smell it too, you know
and it stinks

the only way is dull-eyed and static
the only thing to be is grounded
the only thing to want is right where you are
and if you think i'm being sarcastic, i'm not
i just care, is all
i just care about you

— The End —