Life Cycle of a Morning

Stagnation, roll up your sleeves, no one sees you when you hide.
And I don’t care if you redefine yourself, using crayons to color your outsides.
Smiles and lines, contours smothering air, humid and stank, leaving the room after a night of lust, spread legs and pillow talk, vitriol words that hang,
distilling into sleep or dreams, between sleep apnea and lost sentiment coming apart at the seams.
Nobody sees you but me, the real you and hypothetical me,
flogging the morning hours, a fly circles overhead and the slow drip of coffee.

This beautiful morning needs to be imperfect– we love each other for the same purpose, reminders; sandman- clean out your eyes and kiss me with your morning breath,
my lips are dry and the clamminess of skin leaving out its last sweat.

This perfect morning, piggy-backing the quiet, save for the ‘buzz’ of a fly mother who lost her maggots, coasting past the morning newspaper, poverty, shootings- things you just can’t relate to.
People who live in the skids, broke bank accts. and blistered families, burned out– so wasted.

Oblivion makes it’s case.
Compound eyes shoot a glance my way
There’s nothing left to save but face.
The lifespan of a fly and my own kids close by
as I drift back to a less complicated place.

Black Out The Sky

We make marvelous ornaments- here, the ground level for beauty and commerce, eating each other’s will.
The green, stretched without any indifference, the ends and the means battling it out for supremacy.
Somewhere atop a sky rise reflected the sunlit sky back in its own space- reveling the mist, globe like and super-dome to round up all the weak and sick.
The malevolent crowds, CEO’s, shuffling into the situation room, executing every last heart and mind and perforating the globe into the sky, blacking out the sun, leaving the children to the scraps, fodder for the recessed masses.

ANTS

Piss on this nonsense,
You can’t make believe
with something in a constant state of sleep,
wakes when you’re not paying attention,
a surprise every time.
Wet dreams, drowning in sweat,
thinking “is this the best it will ever get??”
Can’t conceive of another way to take you on,
but it’s all a joke anyway.
These tattoos won’t dissolve,
when we thought it was a good idea,
and now that’s gone.
Mistakes. Pulled skin.
Tightly absorbed and interweaved.
This feeling almost pulsates, without origin, without a home,
cause you got no cause for alarm,
just the call of infallible silence.
Your head swims in it.

Here among the crowd, the people marching like ants
walking the mall,
a dedication I’ll never understand.
We aren’t alike- that’s cool.
One more tab under the tongue,
fools, everyone of you.
I am nothing like that,
breaking a pattern I never understood.
And it really makes no difference.
We all march sooner than later.

Derelict Sun

The singular sound of roaring cicadas, synching at a sweeping velocity.
The ringing windfall, accompanying the rift.
Damn, it’s hard to think with you in my head.

Someone caught you snoozing at the wheel, and the dopes knew just what to do.
They took you for granted, left you to double back.
Still, buzzing in your head made for a Muzak-al background.
“I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo…”

What my head felt like with a thousand ideations compressed and fighting for air.
The sunlight was safe in the distance.

Taking in the scenery…