Thoughts On Government Spending, ETC

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Legislators employ the measurement, complete with tuxedo and ivory cane, styled with answers, styled like a leading question. Notice. Bills retire with a budget, they move to warmer climates and bask in the flames of oceanside views. This assures blame to be situated inside the hearts & minds of those crafting the budget for another fiscal cycle. Hot damn that’s clever. Democracy reassures this process by enforcing a revolving chamber complete with silver tongues and stiff iron rods, they “spare the rod.” Ideas that deal with faceless patrons have the privilege of indulging ambiguity, to define identity. Bills are then presented, either in the fashion of streamlined footage, in real-time, or internet fodder spread about like genital herpes, though we claim the crafter we still reverberate the claim, “all governments are the same.” If that were true then why complain? Same defines without qualm, same defines familiarity as accepted repetition, we produce the same because we enjoy the same, but even a lone stroll to the corner gas station reveals caricatures of human behavior diverse as the cliché is valuable, as I interact with the desk clerk who was trained to sustain the agreed upon P.R. conditions as per corporate studies, I glance at the headlines bleeding ink onto the newspaper rack. It’s rather perplexing how familiar repugnance has become to the human experience, but that’s how organic motion functions. Same as before, but bestowed to the public as folk music interspersed with metaphysical pizzazz.

Ignore diversity and love becomes the only answer.

A Big Death

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I admit
It’s exasperating
To find strands of her hair

Loose as the traditional morals
Compromising romance
Falsifying
The Allegory
Of cave expulsion.

She’s off chasing butterflies,
Collecting them
& trapping them
Inside transparent mason jars.

Excited,
She angled the glass
Lopsided
A shimmer emerged
Conceived by sunlight.

She commented,
“Aren’t they beautiful?”

I peered at the butterflies,
Magnified sunlight
Caused their wings to crackle.

They remained pitted
At the bottom of the jar.

I said,
“They’re dying.”

She said,
“So?”

And with their last memories
The butterflies examined their captor,
She
Admired the final seconds
Of something small,
Smiling
As if it had no effect
At all.

Make It Easier

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I want to ingest lust polished clean as Pawn Shop Silver.
I want to break down on the highway, conduct traffic
Inhibited by my anchor.

I believe in stop motion.
I believe time commenced
And progresses the inevitable balance
Of death. This assures the most

“Likely”

Of outcomes
to be exposed

As clean.

In the waning seconds of now
It’s fathomable
That what started as an accident
Designated as the Origin Of Time
Precedes as now
To ensure
The coffee stain lingering on my kneecap,
Warming the patella,
Was the likeliest of scenarios
After purchase. The other options

The stainless denim moments

Exist somewhere boring,

The parallel dimension

I consider
Muncie, IN.

House Broken And Kinda Dumb

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When I consider the enormous range of God’s addiction to recognizable conduct, that is the ability to reverse a positron and thus correspond time with a wave, well, this ain’t no ripple on a flag. I think it remains like laughter inside a yelp, a few fluctuations in vibrations, suddenly, a feature from body language places braille for us to touch near a tilted lens, we must lean with the conversation to brace the weight of what’s to come. A cold pulse. A secret told. A knife where the heart used to go. I won’t allow it.

I present here the drunken cackle of domesticated colonists, spending the eve with fingers streaked with pizza grease, trembling the inch of fermented oats nestled at the bottom of their can. Outside a rail yard supervisor scours the empty boxcars for any stragglers lingering inside. He flashes his cellphone light, it skips like a strobe illuminating specks of dirt for seconds-long exposure. He’s alone. He’s alone and the weight of this realization forces his body to lean against a boxcar. A few feet away, Homeless Bob squirms and appears from the shadows. He saunters off and studies the silent supervisor still leaning, reposed, docile. He thinks he understands. He reasons with the lull, remembers a car commercial where a family sped down an open road, exchanging smiles, casual as ventriloquist dummies. If he could market that smile, he’d sell it to the supervisor, but the lack of noise forces his heartbeat forward. He kicks at pebbles that skip and knock the tracks, initiating tiny pings upon impact. This is his song. This is his song and it’s the only noise he’ll hear tonight besides his breathing.

Idolized Mysteries And Their Grandchildren

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Consider this a rogue consequence:
Francesco submitted to a dry heave,
Paced around
Discounted furniture-
Disgorging a trail of digested white-bread
And lemonade,
He pleaded:
“Don’t tell Holly about the stains.”

We have blemishes
On carpets
That streamline
Like clouds
Donating familiar shapes
To entice our imaginations.

Within the contours of vomit
I placed snake skin,
TV static and ant-hills-
On drywall,
“Forget the diamonds, Holly.
I’m your man.”

This is where collages discover essence,
Borrowing memories
Like professionals. And won’t the knife
Shimmer, gladly? And won’t the children
Play outside?

Francesco ate narcotics on a Monday afternoon,
But exotic tombs
Ring hollow.

Dumpster Filler

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If I was a fiend for definitions this might appear as a metaphor, or worse a statement: I watched a man vault into the air and land inside a dumpster. He sealed the lid with fingers censored at their tips by darkness, barely visible through a streetlight’s amber bloom. It was storming, books were quivering on my shelves and Voltaire and Ellison defied the winds, remained calm as bonsai trees flourishing through a drought. I was surrounded by dirty laundry, empty beer cans, but nothing as complicated as dumpster filler. I could’ve invited him inside where it was dry. Offered him some filtered water lurking in a Brita pitcher. Empathy is cruel and seductive. I was inside a dumpster hearing rain patter on a tin roof. It was cold. I was there due to choices made and opportunities provided, but what have I done to deserve filtered water, or the ability to position myself by a kitchen window existing vicariously through a dumpster occupant?

I’m God’s child. I’m also the Devil’s brother. I’m lonely at 3am which is why I write poetry when the church bells are silent, to understand, to understand what would require a definition. Definitions are Dumpster filler. I guess.

Embrace The Mora Inside A Gibberish Scream

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I
Who was the concept,
Startled,
Meandered to find
Abscesses
Posing as gravel.

Absurd
But
Logical.

When the concept becomes
Those who left
Then I become
The definition
Of the search.

And I found
Scales of flags
Strewn,
Humped
By the wind
Inside a mora.

Clowns, perverts, officers
And politicians alike-
Commenting,
“That seems necessary.”

When I gathered dust
I piled it beside
A thumbtack. I predicted
The wind would refrain
From humping,
Deterred by the prick.

But a thousand grains of dust
Impacted the border line,
Where soul meets body.

And a thousand doppelganger souls
Entered the waistlines of those confused
From a hip shake
Came the impending grip
Of something new. We stood trembling
While lustful onlookers
Embraced our shame.

And after the trembling ceased
We had new names.