Set . . . Match . . .
The level bubbles red (stop) not
yellow (pause). Flip
the flag. The play
[ing field] has been empty. 4 years
of silence = emotion
You call it disengagement. But that is
another equation. Entirely
inappropriate, I begin to disprove all
constraints consistent with
al pulling. I am
all thumbs and thoughts, scraping
erasures over blanks filled in
with zeros. That is a history
worth recording. For posterity,
I pose in contemplation (mostly
for the cameras). In reality,
I am immune to every gradient
pheromonal influx of this relation
Sifting Out All the Impossibilities
I am bubbling (over?)
with ideological idioms of breath
and breast and blood. Where
am I in this nightmare's rampage?
Trampled or triumphant
hold the same space. And
both are too abandoned
to separate my shadow.
Let alone my resourcefulness
The whole scenario is misguided
(at best). Beastly. Bleeding
amongst exhaustion's drippings:
Discards over dreams.
(Now that's a house worth folding for.
Or) Falling over.
The biomathmatical calculations
take on a captivating glow.
Is it power or pyre?
Guess we'll have to wait
and see what flavor the ashes flow.
My Brain is Fried
Sliced on angle to keep
the flavor in, it wilts in bubbling
puddles of butter-flavored Pam.
Losing color (and calories?)
with every prolonged minute of this
forced interaction with onions
(their stench alone, shading it green).
A flip finds the other side
crispy and crackling with exacerbation
at being overdone. It always believed it was
more sunny-side-up-smiling-eyes, feels
cheated of its chance to drool
at point of puncture, mourns such mock
metaphoric death as it drops,
an unceremonious plop,
onto chipped enamel plate.