We are full of anger and decency—the anger of a fragile
cliff, and the decency of a broken lock, the circularity of its loneliness. Consider
the percentage of news that arrives staticky,
over walkie talkies. A fact happened. I say “eek!” Jokingly!
How the hell do you say “eek.” The eek
shall inherit the earth? It’s raining on the freight tracks beside the smokestack,
top of which grows a flowering-forth, deciduous beauty, these
flowering moments tend to mimic the rugged optimism that might abandon itself
in the commercial forays of our
narrow-gauge politics. It’s raining on the freight tracks
near Baltimore, outrageous stocky drops, the mineral concept of dollar coins. A
departure bell swims around like (grayscale)
fingertips in (lenitive) wind. Later, the upward smudge of
the moon playing above the ruckus of chairs arriving, or the upward smudge of
the moon playing above the ruckus of
chairs packed off for another destination. What, therefore, cannot
be enumerated? The wavelengths of distal objects? Here swerves the leaf-like
trajectory of an idea, forgotten,
the years-in-relevance of a lifespan or redemption-as-industry
despite witnesses. A special prosecutor arrives, sweaty and bloated. He
receives one (1) office in the basement
beside the Feudalist, one (1) stack of documents, differing
in content from that of the Feudalist, and one (1) forehead-mounted flashlight,
to enable the examination of fissures
and cleavages. In time, the Feudalist will steal the special
prosecutor’s cigar-pinching device. All citizens shall be classified as “essential
personnel”, and as such, issued signage
that reads “Break out of the cycle good” and “Break out of
the cycle bad.” American deer, in particular, will offer stern topographies of
the weather: doe as hotfoot pelt, buck
but for the branch bristling, the leaves bright with water,
the shrink-wrap woods. Strip malls adjoin every hardscrabble America,
especially districts that foretell a quilt-work of
calamity. The halo of a drive-thru! All these worlds natural,
the heaped-up galaxies gleaming amid the despondent wisdom of coherence. (Too many cars rotate like cakes in
glassy buildings.)
Man weighs his deficits on the greengrocer’s scale. I’m so stunned—wordplays
flail me. I should aspire to be more than a kindly fellow occupying a space
at the denouement of a crisis, eternally sporting greaser
attire with “you betcha” scorn. Let’s consider the pastels of soft-spoken
resistance, many such kingdoms, borderless. . . .
