in
the soft
and
warm realms
where
memory
always
goes to
you can feel
desolation beyond angels
you strain to hear music
beneath
jaded flesh
you feel the wind
you watch clocks
carve rivers
into
old valleys
you call clouds
make us all
ornamental
bough bends
evergreens
spending time
leaning toward dark
watching
humanity’s fray
peel, unfurl
breathing
every bouquet
between a birth
and an endless
mortal
wound
you
see this
from
the inside
at
first, behind glass
museums
calling
for
your soul
like
bill collectors do
you
chain-collar hope
to
the signposts
when
your futile becomes
a
beautiful necessity
you
calculate survival
into
mad algorithmic machinery
you
mine each exhale
weight
the rain
in cellular death
to catch bits of ore
a
soul needs
to
bargain
for a meaning
you
may have
overlooked
checking out
perhaps
you say
eating
the dark
looking
out the window
for
every shiny part
keeping
you alive
that
excitement
was
always meant
to
be confined
to
the single mantra drone
at
the bus stop
muttering kites
and disappearances
we
ought to own nothing
and
to give each of us
Willy
Loman on a stick
we are calling
into
life sick
of
most things human
with our pockets
turning out warrants
for the rabbits running
our
investments
we faux-contest
they are not
infested
with a rot
because, even with every
distraction turned up high
we do find life is
systemic, anemic blooms
industrial
broken thrusts
and no longer
do roses
for more
they make
EJR
©
This one has a brilliant insanity about it!
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