shoot the lark;
Can we bleed bloodless?
Are the stages set
for cherries
or for dark?
The bold begat the blind,
The two-faced Janus mask
overhangs like vines.
The mind is not what you think it is,
It is watching -- no outlet
for your thoughts, worth
only pennies.
The clutter fills like foam
in a sock cushion.
The stories of your home,
Compendiums of
misplaced dust.
You've become,
in words and song,
a casualty,
electromagnetic scrape,
The homings on you
where you are
to keep you mired in place
without recourse,
without pity,
The play of the
collapsing city
Squeezed
of any juice
despite the café cream
that brims over
as laughter
bitter and
hot like tears.
They have come now, the fae,
ears perked, by the rosemary,
Surprised, in the season of bunnies,
to not be seen,
though their toadstools
and ponds
feed birds in every garden.
They are known
thus no longer real.
That is the way the teachings go,
the bump in the night
merely disappears.
Unoccupied realms those beams
of heaven's light --
You can't decide what vision trick
to cure,
blue or orange on your eyes?
The theories give so few clues what to do.
You could chase down deeper theories
or go on, as is
your wont
to something new.
There is always
something different
That is always
too the same
but it will do
For the purposes of distraction
amusement never fails
to block another moment
from the whole
(Like how douchetard is the new mot juste
or the secret life of spirulina seeds)
-- All are equal
to fill the thoughts
with possibilities
That will never pan out except as
momentary prayers
to nonexistent dreams.
The ones who veered away
and smile behind a screen
All say to follow them
but they leave
no breadcrumbs
behind.
