I thought I had a dog in this fight, but it ain’t seem like it now.
June 17-Aug 27, 2016
He had six wings:
With two he covered his face
With two he covered his feet
With two he flew
Weirdos are autodidacts are survivalists are sages are gurus
Under the right conditions, you learn the insulating power of loneliness;
the humming afterglow that remains when followers disappear.
Try to make a list of everything there is to care about
and find a vessel for each.
At the end of the day, there will be vessels.
Teeth against tinfoil, molars on steel wool:
if you get caught on the precipitous side of the precipice,
that’s the sound of getting over.
It’s not loud, but every crunch spells out
a dogged and indigestible action of the jaw.
In this ghost town, payroll is relic.
Pour fluorescent light into a flask, and you’ll be sure to find it later.
Stand up in defense of fountains,
especially the ones that are imperceptible
except for their abject, coiling
dribble into a plastic bucket.
The beauty of water is its ability to do as it’s told
in small quantities,
its submission to form,
its questionably meditative din over the tinfoil noise.
Tick up the ladder of little incandescents
until you find yourself
between two tweekers
trying to scrounge the wherewithal to finish a fight.
That’s the kind of energy that’s worth pinching.
The two-headed horse
guarding your hoard
requires a lot of hay.
Don’t bother about confusion.
If you’re worried about dying, make
a Rube Goldberg machine that does nothing.
If you’re not worried about dying,
what are you worried about?