“My Tired”

“My Tired”

My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.

Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.

Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.

Methodical metronome,

cadence of an old age home,

waiting to retire.

Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.

Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.

Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.

Lost, recovered? Abruptly.

Dream-weaving steampunk.

Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.

Deep oscillating breath,

skirts the breadth of death.

“ignominy”

“ignominy”

Idols fall at the fevered pace of fake news announcements.

Ideas brand you as dangerous.

Dialogue dry-well, drywalled in.

Immovable position.

Paralyzed by fear.

Innocence becomes the lie it always was.

Ignorance is heralded,

especially when wrapped in arrogance and denial.

There is no middle ground.

Just extreme extremism extremely extant.

Order is caving and leaving on chartered flights, and squirreled in the hold of shipping containers.

Those that feel comfort within the framework that a society provides, have no conception, that that luxury is only provided by that which they hold in contempt.

Consequence is gaining.

Ignorance is not bliss, but a precursor to suffering.

The middle will not hold, unless good people stop listening to those that sow doubt.

The philosophers are extinct, and their ashes have been eaten gluttonous by apologists that are in love with their zeal.

I sit out in the open road, hoping that when the collapse comes, I can see that sinister look of recognition dress the faces of the smug.

A recognition that liberty is just another illusion in the tent of Abraham.

Institutional ignominy delivered on target by drowning drones.

Driven mad, by madmen, and the most sincerely irrational and well-meaning people.

“Not to be macabre, but…”

 

 

 

 

 

 “Not to be macabre, but…”

I’m tired and unfinished,

and I noticed,

that when I thought of calling you,

to kill time,

I couldn’t.

Because, you are dead.

Then I thought of someone else,

the same someone I always think of when I want to talk to you and I can’t.

You know, the person I ultimately end up trying to call,

 when you aren’t available.

But, that person, is also now dead.

I make calls that go to voicemails that are never answered.

Living and dead.

Screened, and unattended.

Voicemail box set up, but forever unclaimed.

Kind of wish that I had picked up more often,

now that I come to think of it.

It’s funny how life appears busy,

until it isn’t.

It’s a little known fact,

that prayers now go directly to voicemail.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fugue State”

“Fugue State”

All of a sudden,

somehow,

detachment is necessary for survival.

Topsy-Turvy,

sailor’s scurvy.

There’s no one in the crow’s nest.

Uncharted course approaching,

at breakneck speed.

Seasick,

Netflix and spill,

your guts over the Starbucks side.

Waves are swelling.

But, if you focus on the horizon,

a tidal wave is building,

Momentum gathering at a point.

When will it get here?

Waiting on the coastline for a Tsunami is tremendously boring.

A great scourging purge will claim the abomination we dreamt,

and teach us new universal truths.

Wandering, faces aglow.

The aroma of Huxley’s soma,

drawing us further into ourselves,

without hope of surfacing for air.

It was tech’s JOBS, to imprison us behind the GATES.

Barbarians are we, gates or not.

“In anticipation of your death”

 

 

“In anticipation of your death”

In anticipation of your death,

I wanted you to know,

that we wasted so much time.

That, we barely scraped the surface of truth between us.

So much is left unsaid.

So much won’t be said.

The majority of this was done out of psychological survival.

As your weapons grade narcissism,

only allowed for one person to speak at a time.

You were always this person.

In anticipation of your death,

I rejoice at the notion, that your gravity will no longer influence my orbit.

Mistakes were made,

people hurt.

Squandered days and nights,

nothing put right.

The truth between us:

you took me for granted, and I enabled that in you.

I thread the needle of spite, with a spool of gradual disappointments.

I will sew the seams of our straitjacket life,

and desperately donate it to charity.

Hopefully, it gets caught in a wayward dumpster and tears beyond repair.

Once it’s gone, I will breathe again.

Once you are gone, I will breathe again.