Poem #74

Is
Down a widow pancake amended with MRI magnetron particles?
On for the show, less a widow more a black window?

Or should we churn the flow of impotent chaos ie chaise lounge chairs of inactivity dooming us all.

I dreamed of Edward Hopper sketching a pirate to enter grad school. his handling of the hair was a little naive.

Plunder our own flu shot caches, nothing left to protect against this common cold.
Drive as if the bank is on the repo, make chances, this is what should be but is only seen in superhero tv shows.
I always feel for those vertigo villains, anyway.

Whose wifi is I think I know,
His car is at the grocery tho.
He will not see me stopping by,
To watch some porno in the snow,
while corporate hackers steal the rest, leaving loot chests filled with death.

I have finally
Down for good I thinks, fiended,
using too many adjectives to describe an Unwinnable war,
too few stanzas with optimist prime.

Poem 73

An echo of my gasping breath came back from the canyon up ahead where the last hour of my life is waiting.
I think it was an E minor, or perhaps I am tone deaf and ken not the alphabet of sonic vibration.

A fudge sickle waiting on a bookshelf for me to come back from reading spoon river has been melted by the echo, ruining pages in a monogram of milk carton collages.
Well, I guess I should have gone in for the ice cream sandwich.

Rapid fire fears erased the daydream of motor biking through an autumn evening down a smooth street devoid of cars.
The echo awakened something enormous in the back left corner where my pedestal bearing god used to give me comfort.
And finally we confront ourselves in elevators going up and coming down, waiting to board and straining to disembark, listening and hoping it was the squeaking of the cables up above.

Poem #72

They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.

The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.

When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.

Poem #71

Mention Urdu in the geometry of failed Urban sprawl
The new hotness soon the cold starkness.
Ours is empire in recline.

Owls speak in bwahahahs above us in the reaches of the trees we can no longer teach the names of.
Hippy shit, don’t lay that hippy shit on me.
But leave me some green anyway, to rest my mind.
Even pollock had the edges of his canvas to refrain.

Strapped to fixed gear bicycles built for speed, the only way to stop, pedal backwards.
It’s as if we are ringing the end of a phone line to a top floor office, futile, the big boss is dead, finally and utterly resigned.