stillfugue

I.
(Slowly)
Adaptability would allow me to live.
I’m frozen with guys who grow hair long.
They sing all day into the shells of the creations of man.
All of it is a river,
heading for dark silver soccer fields
with decades of dead players.
My fortress is gone too.

II.
(Moderately Fast, With Anxiety)
Sometimes it lies on me
like a large woman on a bus bench.
There is the sledgehammer to my temple.
Blinking tractor lights.
Trash trucks squeal
as if they are bringing personal defilement.
And even our most alluring inspector
cannot touch my heart.
There is a certain feel
that the car will hit the curb.
I will melt away.

III.
(Like a Light Dance)
Can you hear the bombs in the driveling sewer pipes?
Nothing outside is copacetic for the violence
of rapid death.
A vacant walk puffs here and there.
And you and I,
for the only delectation of the day,
laugh at the depth of my sickness.

IV.
(Fast)
My assignment is a commodity of happy.
I can feel all of you laughing.
Before any of the channels in my brain
begin to spark with dispatch of this rebellion,
I find I can lie just as well as all of you.
I had forgotten for a long while,
but now my trumpets with crooked faces
are blaring happiness.