To Repetition
Never believed in unicorns nor the whispers of horses. I know a liar in any species. They all give
themselves away. And yes, if it breathes it can lie. Plants, flies, mushrooms, yeast even those fabrics,
that synthetic blend of chemistry that lets air in and dries sweat super fast.
*
Hope is a love song for the streetlights. And you know where time goes? It sinks into your wrinkles,
slumps the shoulders, builds on the waist, goes on the thighs, grows hairs and exiles any sense of
attractiveness. Quarantines some something from the handsome. But hope carries on even when
only the lights are listening.
*
Every diary is a thief. Each entry steals from the ability to reimagine an event in a better light. The
truth is mean and uses its cruelty to defeat its enemies. Thus, it is free.
*
Dreams are made of wires and gears. Circuits and machinery. Thinking is John Henry. Fantasy, the
steam drill.
*
Come hell.
Go, heaven.
Go, lowtide.
The spectrum
is wide
but a gated community
none(for)theless
*
If only a better system was more in vogue. In demand.
Fought to win
to settle debts
and the new world
unfamiliar
with old world dreams
whose bravery has all but
been sweat out
without a drop mourned for.
On the phone
how much was received?
Its such a pricy ceiling above holding onto air only seen in age
-grey, yellow, tainted
as unclean as life itself.
Tied down. Whipped. No fetish for the reality of relatives. A crown of no. John Henrys single
minded heavy handed swing for the Jackie Robinson fences to come.
A shroud of opposition.
Christened. Baptized. Consummated. Initiated.
That downward strike to shake applause from nosebleed seats
- nigger heavenbalcony, mezzanine.