Checkerboards upon the sky
And butterflies behind cold eyes,
A million shards, the shattered souls,
Through mist gaze up from secret holes.
A whisper trapped inside the glass,
A star that shines in rotten cask–
Empty the vessel, pour in the truth:
You are the fly, but the web’s in you.
3-4-2019
One day you’ll wake,
And it’ll all be gone.
You’ll feel like either you,
Or the world,
Has become alien.
Flags will still wave
On the tops of their poles,
Like patriotic cocktail decorations
For giants.
They’ll mean nothing though,
By then.
Selfies, politics, cats,
And disasters
Will continue to roll through your
Feeds,
But for once you’ll have lost
Your appetite.
The stores will be open,
People will have barbeques
And Super Bowl parties,
But they’ll have nothing,
Not really.
It’ll happen,
In time,
To most of you,
You’ll wake to see this
Stark truth,
But by then it will be
Too late,
If it isn’t already.
You’ll tear your hair out
Wondering how.
How could we have all
Let this happen?
But we will,
We did,
And we are,
Because even when we
Allow ourselves
To think of it,
We don’t think very far,
To what “can’t be”
Because it’s just
Too bad,
But somehow
Still is.
The end won’t come
Announced on CNN,
The New York Times,
Or the Huffington post.
They’ll still be shouting
Their warnings
Unaware.
The media will be
Frozen,
Stuck in a traumatic repetition
Of their warnings,
Unable to accept
That they were ignored,
While ignoring the nightmare
That surrounds them.
You’ll see.
It’ll all be gone.
Everything that matters,
Everything needed to
Sustain our humanity,
Will just be
Gone.
But you’ll still be here.
Awake.
Aware.
Maybe that’s
The worst part of all.
12-17-2018
How can something
Be so close,
As close as my own
Breath,
And still remain
Unattainable?
I reach,
I stretch,
It’s all around me,
Everywhere,
But I cannot grab hold
Of it.
The scent of it
Fills me,
Disorients
And confuses me,
Because it is.
It’s in the smell
Of fresh bread
Drifting from the bakery,
Lazily engulfing me.
It’s in exhaust
Thrown in thick clouds
From the tailpipes of cars
Working overtime
In the cold.
It’s the smell of a caramel macchiato
Mingling
With that of too many bodies
Packed tight
Inside a large mobile
Metal box.
In the stomach-threatening
Inevitability
Of whole shops choked
With artificial cinnamon
And pine,
It’s there.
It’s amid
The mad-dash rush
Of consumerism,
Filling stockings
And emptying wallets.
It’s in the calls and the ringing
Of the bell-ringers,
Standing in the snow
For charity
Outside over-priced
Department stores,
And everything their presence
Represents.
All of these things pronounce it,
Over megaphones,
Loudspeakers,
And chipper music
Piped in for the
Holidays.
Yet I can’t find it
Anywhere.
I feel like a
Blindfolded fool,
Stumbling this way and that
Inside a round room,
Eternally searching
For a corner
In which
To sit.
12-17-2018
The cockroach scampers
over a half-eaten
apple
on the altar.
The sick-sweet stench
of rot
hangs thick,
like a noxious
mist.
The air is littered
with dying things.
The wind shrieks
and there is a whirring
in my ears.
I can not keep
my balance.
Everything
breaks down
around me;
a rolling process
separating
what is
into less and less
substantial
forms.
I can taste the stale
mold,
dusty and choking,
its spores
filling my lungs.
I greet
Her–
the reality behind
life’s illusion;
its nourishment,
its origins,
as well as its
endings.
5-3-18
Shattered Mindspace 