I do not think about complexities.
Smiles all around. Happiness, even, as
mistrials of obscurity obliterate
creating literatures of independence
expressed by deafening revelations.
Seas embark on pursuits nimbler than drowning planets.
Mountains decide to move toward plutocracy.
Pipe organs shuffle military exercises in the hands of
unskilled church musicians, whistling invisibly through
watery threats of angry nuns and vapid priests.
Vanishment of empty space is a hoax, a
fraud of hungry dreamers who
button down horizons.
They say pictures tell the story, that
books reveal the meaning, that
experience is moot and even banal.
Trends evolve toward contrarian humorlessness,
patchworks of momentum dropped by
alternate means of transportation:
tennis shoes today,
palms of one’s hands tomorrow,
movements poised for treason as
winter’s grim assurances creep
These are unusual impotencies we
transport from face to face. We
alienate the wealthy with our
lifestyles of contempt, filling
friction with royalty stolen from
ancient, undocumented disasters.
I conceal dreams risen from rainwater.
I restrain chipped vibrations from
lofting unwelcomely into conversation.
Vacuums paradoxically grow,
increasing like artificial horizons
overseen by transient politicians.
Sirens weep with stale breezes,
communicating nothing of their intent
for they have nowhere to go,
no crime to evict,
no crisis to swallow.
Villainy trains itself to hassle appropriate mimes,
mastering the ways of the victim as
the sirens and their restraint are
suitably, even beautifully distracted.
Lives are lived on mattresses.
We run around difficultly.
Easily we grump.
We absquatulate into
listening to cars pass like
winds in the howl.
Your interpretation is meaningless to nostalgia,
your statements of context artfully crafted to
conspicuously elude the trap of immortality.
Presenting yourself before audiences is an
accident waiting to clap its hands,
a story waiting in a jar as hospitality
unbuckles its appetite for horror.
Whales and eagles blink their eyes, alarms go off,
individuals who never imagined it find themselves
eating electricity with utensils made of impotent timepieces.
Density accumulates around fenceless domiciles.
Strangers hold your mail in makeshift armories.
A force of God surrounds your sense of house,
a force of inevitability, a force of something you
cannot whistle but which you
can feed into the open mouth of a cheap statue,
cracking its plaster as you return it to a
store shelf and meekly slip outside.
You float through shopping malls and fast food drive-throughs,
disappearing into nonexistent movie theaters and
distant grassy gutters filled with hot bottles of beer that
tease you in your mercurial extinction.
Minds open but mouths close for
none should speak of these encounters,
mimicked as they are by the
faces you see in laundry machines and the
voices you hear in shower drains.
You arrive at a point where
nothingness seems impossible.
No death in a universe so active,
no tidy dismissal of eternal life when
friction creates its own renewal.
You uncover old shoes,
remembering how painful they were,
not the comfort but the
memory of bodies trampled,
I saw you in those shoes.
I mumbled to whoever was near:
“Greatness has punctured itself.
It spits like a sailor into farthest moons,
hammering on nutshells,
rebounding like pachinko balls among
Nobody heard me.
I reported the future with estimable accuracy
but heat continued pouring through America,
running like blood through cavernous ghost towns.
There will be multiple countries made of this nation,
multiple enemies and powerless independences.
All will remember but only for opportunity to
slam arguments into
treacherously bored crawlspaces of
Beneath my forehead creaks a half-opened cigar box,
labeled appropriately for villagers and lost adventurers,
tunneled into by flamboyant parasitical darkness.
Tossed among grainy lives of unfulfilled laborers I
study generations inspired by years of kitchen grime,
I deliberate over demonstrations of totemic puppetry.
Scrambling for guidance I find, instead, eyelids creased into
stereophonic slipstreams, passages unreformed by penitent sinners,
distortions of memory intruded upon by strange beeps and vibrations.
I guess not.
Sympathies fail in ways unknown:
Retroactively. Intrusively. Despotically.
I never attended a rally like those going on in today’s creamy oceans of America’s collective subconsciousness.
I don’t know where anyone is or why they would return when scenic crimes transfer thermostatic continuums from cigar box to cigar box, swerving at times but essentially maintaining control of tweedy opinions.
In the future we may never find competence for sustained employment, for reliable trust of strangers who occupy undiscovered economics, who rearm glossaries with fantastical nonsense revamped from thrown-out convictions.
Powerless second chances flourish like spit droplets, unrefined but capable of providing nourishment to children’s games and the silly delusions kept secret by married couples.
We gather to witness erosions of frivolously-maintained principles, luckily alive as boardrooms’ colloquial emptiness flowers into hard-earned disappointment.
Volumes will be written about these times but none who survive will read, learn, or believe enough to verify that the few surviving rumors are anything but myth.
Water will flow, hurrying at times, through abandoned libraries and basements, flowing through past glories where legacies died amid evaporated sounds of nocturnal interference.
Water keeps the foundation alive but its bitter heels split like acorns crushed by mountains, justifying its scorn with unidentifiable satisfaction.