Archive for March 10th, 2011

Drones of a Fan

Dust balls thicker than socks,
hanging desperately, second after second,
their lives beautiful, and I can see,
watching hopelessly, that they
are space and chaos like galaxies,
unaware of those driving motors
of man’s machine, throbbing
away, miserably under-equipped
to fight the heat of an office full
of women who always have
sweaters parked on the back
of these dingy chairs that
are designed to be 21st Century,
but are sorely losing to the
despondency of a place full of people
doing millions of useless tasks in a
proud type of repetitive way.
The dust balls are unique, each
different from the other, each
amazingly fulfilled in its nicely
percolated mission, each only
aware how he is blown this
moment, how his galaxy is shaped
this moment, and each having
no fear of a future, one that
might include death from speed
tunnels of turquoise vacuum cleaners,
but after all there may not be any death,
especially not for dust ball galaxies.

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sick strings moving red clouds

smooth, almost soft plastic
moments as it gets heavier
sure I’ve erred

red truck hogging peace
disturbing consciousness
I’m cold dead

no more suicide stuff
Carl you need happy
I’m serious

plumbing from petroleum
how could you be so stupid
I’m slop

 

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Perhaps Not Wrong

With a scary cross on top,
The street lamp stands tall,
hovering over you, shining,
inspecting your embroiled mind
through your translucent skull.

A 3M Post-It Note on the mirror,
saying, “You’re looking at the problem.”
Remnants of another, rather filthy note,
falsely proclaiming, “God loves you.”
Nothing with you is likely true.

And this morning,
black birds carry bags of rationality
in through the bathroom window,
scattered crumbs of reason
like dirt in the garden, demonstrating
that perhaps those who label you insane
may not have spiritual awareness;
snakes in their hands cast judgment,
but who says you should be made
to suffer the world
in such a kindly and fashionable way?

You admit defeat and accept brokenness.
You are broken over and over,
but perhaps it is they who are broken,
they who stand the barrage of shit,
the waves upon waves of hate
and stay standing, claiming it is normal
to soak up these storms
and not be shattered.
Perhaps they are broken, perhaps insane
in their undisturbed metal skins.

 

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