instead of tombstones, pick over my bones...

facing my music…

…in a ghost vector analysis of a dystopian future…my personalized archaeoastronomy gets lost in the grid population veneer, the meter doesn’t read me, as most instrumentation fails to do with any of us, after the great coal explosions of 2015…curbside garbage collection is now a shadowy recollection service I try to steal into, quaint little memories saved for slogans and snow globes, I shake this world upside down and seize myself in the seethe of nature’s refusal to be my friend anymore, but that is pure fiction, humanity, despite its viral insanity of breed more, breathe more, get more, take more, build doors, start wars...is all about what is beneath the surfactants and refracted beamed diodes, the mostly cloudy skies only hint at what used to be called the weather...now I use simulators as weapons of mass distraction, my favorite is named Maggie Magruder and she is just one pony with a name I used to ride, any talking head, I can think of, is part of these popular electronic interface programs, I have weaponized skin that gets into my eyes, I want dark glasses as a necessity that will transcend fashion as a choice, model wear wares worn on the inside of glass remembers the past in vignettes, some people choose not to leave their homes like me, because delivery service is the best way to avoid contact with pathogens, despite the advent of antiseptics, overuse of antibiotics has made germ warfare propagate little battlefields inside us and if you dare still watch the television broadcasts, every day there is a new enemy of the state of well being, so delivery has become the arms and legs of the human populations, farming is a fairy tale, 3D printers make most food from the sewage that runs beneath the streets, birds still eat spiders and flies still eat us but farming is a lost art here in this world behind alley shops and rusted open signs…

…presented with the past, I am under a white velour chrysalis waiting to learn how to undo things inside dreams, macadam tar and trees, principles in the ingredient lists sting with sway simian tree worship, sunshine is a vapor fluttering by, a littered transient emotion, embedding itself into these landscapes, the ones with golf courses along the sides of highways by design we turn right off speed slow down we are careful and tuck click stick on the column directional indication is an art, scotch pines rob the land when maples and oaks stand best against the weather…I cannot be counted on, not to turn the barrel toward my direction, any insurrection is a religion looking to made into books for compliance and dirty dug in knees with please being the first word spoken by babies baptized in the porcelain bowl of days, I write about Love as if it might not exist much longer and honestly that is how I feel, I don’t deserve it, was born to rebuke it, am gifted with language to use it to my advantage, but no hole is deep enough to keep me satisfied…little songs sustain me under the bridge waiting out the rain…I could build small fires to warm me but that only attracts unwanted attention, so I no longer bathe and I keep wearing the clothes I find in dumpsters and on the sides of the road…death is enlightening and scary and something that looks appealing to me right now…I am a failure by the standards that I apply, to me society is waiting on me and those like me to die, am I mentally ill or just trying not to be seen while singing…I don’t trust this world, this country, this aching part of my humanity, to do the right thing collectively or individually…I know we all lie at some point to pull the trigger and kill the ghosts inside us or take aim at the ravage of disease, when a thought used to be free and easy, like a Spring samara catching the wind and finding the ground is a great place to hide, until hope is sturdy again and alive…

coda in clown face

the stone builder messiahs, the early alchemists, didn’t realize that zinc melted into copper made brass until much later on, their books by then gave away the look and feel of secrets but left holes for the rain to find their back to clouds, I hear their cries in between the chimes, too fast, too soon, too much to figure writing will only benefit the emotionless states of mind, I say give me life to take, in small cars and broken windows, picking up every passerby, breathing is the lost art most are surprised to know never wanted to be a painted museum identification, the velvet ropes strung together between metal poles are in eight foot sections, they mark where we are to go to pick destiny and choice, I pick up neither, find an exit strategy listening , ever listening to where my humanity is also waiting for me to die…”hush little baby, don’t say a word, someday you’ll be part of food for the birds…”

EJR ©