Mr. Philanthropist Capitalist

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A postage stamp used like a Band-Aid to suture the edges of a paper wound. And on the coffee table a glass brimming with tap water trembles from a philanthropist’s footsteps, footsteps galvanized by a frantic pace, directing him to grab items off the shelves and fidget with price tags fastened, loosely. Window shoppers are onlooking, hot breaths trailing from lungs taking pause to appreciate the philanthropist flailing sundries, unknown to him, unowned by him. Shop owner bites her lip. She moans and twiddles a loose string descending off her plain white t-shirt with her fingers, looping the dead stitch around her index and middle fingers. Philanthropist stoops to lift a lone penny off the ground. A centimeter of his underwear peeks out from his khaki waistline. Window shoppers are onlooking and curl their faces with disgust at such a vulgar display. Philanthropist senses a dozen eyes observing his exposure, he turns red and lifts his waistline to his nipples. Shop owner sighs with relief as he exits the store. Nothing was accomplished that day, nothing of value.

Functioning Throughout Lucid Abandonment

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First. A (noun). Then a function to progress function. This speculation assumes deity identity, a separation clear like glass from spectator, who is, or was…that eye sore, or that dead eyed snore, a possession of function, collector of petals, numbers and sex symbols. Witness to thousand-yard stares that ensnare pockmarks in the walls, whence, arachnids lurch and wiggle out stressors (flies that fought) & everyday stories.

Second (noun assumed). She pinches at the corners of her sundress, draped like a curtain over the sides of the park bench. A breeze lifts the corners of her sundress while she’s distracted by moonlight, moonlight that highlights a ripple fluttering in the shallow pond. An assemblage of Gerridae insects scuttle, hop and amuse the streetlamps, onlooking, patient like a voyeur. She pinches at the corners of her sundress and buries the corners beneath her fleshy thighs. A breeze touches her ankles, she smiles but not out of amusement. The smile is a concoction of love, disguised as a fervor.

Revenge Of The Repressed Teenage Cockroach

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A litany of newsworthy components
Fastened to door jambs,
Excuses
Rove & rattle off broken hinges.
The door slams
& violent delinquents saunter
To boxes.

A package on the doorstep,
Fissures formed
On the wrinkled surface
Of the cardboard,
Saturated with puppy drool.

From beneath the sink a cockroach appears.
He wriggles his antennae,
Focuses intently
On what he considers viable literature.

A poem made of ketchup.
A song inside the garbage can.
A kiss to the blades of the ceiling fan.

He lifts a speck of dirt
Plays with it like a bored hippie
Lobbing their Hacky Sack from toe to toe.

He’ll be squashed by empty boxes
If the distraction persists,
But in the moment
Of kissing ceiling fans
The wind caresses
What becomes painful
In the end.

An Ode To The Average Vote

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There are registered democrats beside brick,
Brick pockmarked and conceived

To situate iron & cotton on soap
& Loop de loop barbed wire

Around the Maypole. Children tease
Abrasions
By inserting barbs
At the apex of knuckle function.

T-shirt enthusiasts whisper insights
To telegraphs, watching invisible carrier pigeons
Flex toenails & search for employment
While deploying dead insights
On the registered voters below.

Brother Thomas notices a penny glinting
In the street. He scuttles steadfast, stoops
And pinches his wealth. He holds it
Toward the sun. A pinpoint shimmer
Reflects off the zinc & zigzags
Across the vision of an approaching driver.

Brother Thomas dies a registered democrat,
He never voted to save his life.

A Morning For Her Afternoon

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Compressed &
Leaking like a sponge
Sacrificing its hinterland.

He’s
Pretending the corner is a table,
Placing shrubbery on the edge &
Censoring his telephone number. Wind
Advances leaves,
Twirling their leather soft frames
Like nipple tassels
On dancing utters.
And the rustling
Confuses birds

A flock of robins consider the babbling
Of rain water
Descending into sewer grates
With dirt &
Lace
As the culprit
Of the rustling.
Blue jays remain cautious
Of conclusions, reserving judgement
For God.

He’s remembering her
Despite the planned
Comatose. He’s hunting
His phone number,
Observing 6 bleed into 0 and 8.

She said that lack of interest
Wasn’t goodbye, that circumstance
Abided to the title champion
Of reality.

& that he should get some sleep
& eat his grains

But now he’s naming shrubbery,
Inventing labels based off their movements
Hypnotized by their twirls.

Thoughts On A Fly Landing On A Washing Machine

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A fly landed on the plastic door of a washing machine,

(In contrast to mobile machinery, a washing machine is fascinating. Mobile in a sense,
Spinning outright to manipulate the laws of physics and cleanse soiled garments…
It’s a foolish fascination, but I prefer a fool’s pleasure to an intellectual’s psyche)

The plastic dipped toward the back of the machine, folding in like an upright basin mounted on a hillside.
I studied the fly’s movements, it had limited gestures:
A rubbing together of its front legs,
A flapping of its wings while its body remained still,
A caressing of six figure eyeballs examining the ginormous community surrounding its cute, minute frame.

It remained there as the machine shook and a rainbow of cloth spun with mystic sensibility in the foreground. Around us, patrons of the laundromat ignored my studies and focused on their chores at hand. A man shuffled toward their lover and I overheard him claim,
“Sweetie. Rent is due. We can’t afford to dry clothes today.”
A round faced child maneuvered throughout the tight aisles. He sprinted past us
The fly, alarmed, ejected from their station and flew upward, landing on a discolored ceiling tile, from my viewpoint I could no longer study the simple gestures. I focused on the child. His actions couldn’t hold my attention as profoundly as the fly’s.

Human movements are as common as an insect’s. We encounter both, if not daily, close to, but what’s fascinating about insects is the lack of agency we can apply to their existential dread. I recognize a child’s boredom, but a fly’s lack of interest I cannot attest to. A fly’s judgement to be there in the moment and repeat what it did seconds before, remaining faithful to contentment, invigorates a jealously reserved for insecure lovers….

The Origins Of Complicated Smoking

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Opponents of simplicity dip their cigarettes in paint & inhale globs of color,
Air provides a canvas to which they vandalize oblivion with bubbles.

Ensnared by the color spectrum
Gasoline puddles twirl rainbows,
Envious of free based aesthetic.

“Clown makeup on a dead clown’s face.”

Sunrise,
Sunset

To provide
& beget

The origins of complicated smoking.