10.10.17

HISTORY AS VIEWED BY THE PANOPTICON




The complete eating of burned skin. Ashen toast.
Can it not warm my pie. I have lost my older
sufferings. Absolve me of my gratitude. Untie
the swift knots of my prayer, but don't merely re-
peat platitudes: for mimicry I do not care. Environ-
mental disruptor persuades a hungry populace that
there is no such thing as the environment, and they
believe it. Just as they believe that there can exist
more than one disruptor. These spun patients slowly
develop a bubble spell reality. Their spin doctors
quickly form encrusted mica shells. All who they've
preyed upon then believe themselves to be a part of
their innermost circle. This describes how they are
each lost to the vortex of their own subconscious
imaginings. While one floats away as iridescent
soap bubbles flocking sunward, the others
gradually incarcerate themselves under-
neath the prestigious carapaces which
never fail to drown them into the dirt.
Dirt is very high on the list
of examination priorities.

9.10.17

A PAIR OF WIRE-RIMMED GLASSES FOLDED UPON A SHELF


Sinning   without you
  like   a   failed
conspiracy   where loneliness
and regret    com-
mingle and   yet
kept     separate
by   the   thinnest
membrane of the impervious

that impenetrable      barrier
comprised of all         the air
in between us    compressed
into an electroplated   shield

shining   over   the   course
of an  isolated  evening
anything could represent it now
from the bright nickel disc
of  the    moon

the solitary
 mirror   be
  tween    us

to a   condom which  success
fully  performed its  function
before  being          discarded
from the car   into  the  gutter

reflecting what really happened
to no one but our crowning star

Now   doing well    seems futile
without you  here   where
the dragon  bleeds
into its  bandages
smiling back  at  us

from the   canted
looking  glasses
poised over our
bathroom sinks

8.6.17

FLUENT COMMAND

for Matthew Damon



Cursive's rules, its loops and curlicues, reveal a lot about us.
Perhaps its best we lay it to rest, buried along with the worst
of our secrets and plotting and lies; a nice clean typography
will better keep us in line. It's fine, don't worry, the quatrains
will be running on time, everything kept under strict control
while the sinuous, inveterate signature of our blossoming
gets rectified by autocorrection with machine-like precision.
Farewell to our sensuous rhythm. Welcome the fascist rule.

9.2.17

PAPER WHAT IS IT



the dead skin sloughed off Institutions
something to record our cryptic Solutions
promissory notes passed on but never Paid
from trees that we made into Lampshades
for the illumination of our deepest Fears
and desires really the same thing Fueling
our fires and schooling the liars we Hire
to print more currency from the flayed Hides
of our own strip-mined lungs so we can See
ourselves in this written mirror Instead
of breathing in the air paper is an Excuse
we use to justify the ending of our Lives
and to marginalize our state of being Alive