The mirrors I
find myself in the images
Gathered from the
voices and expressions of others
Damn me to
evaluate my sanity
This solitude has
sharpened my blade
For either self
stabbing or pruning the weeds
That shroud what
the occupied can not manage
Given the
constraints of popular interaction
The hordes are
beholden to the hordes
Arms, limbs,
mouths in motion to satiate
The extravagances
of polite machinations
Appeasing the
isolation of exile that may happen to bring a man to think
Contemplate the
purpose for our existence
And I believe I
have found it over here in the sand
Facing flat to
the sun for any wanderer to take to hand
The heat, the
humidity, the stench, the ardent torch of wood to flint
My language has
mutated, crumpled in chromosomes
To produce
garbled poetic philosophies which are like Hansel’s seeds
Dropped for
purpose, but devoured by the crows in hasty concern
For the immediate
need of hunger, allocating nothing for spiritual nourishment
Beasts, birds,
wolverines and flamingos bobbing like warlords and disco queens
Marrying off,
procreating in hovels of corporate logos gestating Easter eggs
Accch!, vomit,
listening to gambits played out in the harbors, the factories
The interstates
and chicanery of pig pens oink-ing, oink-ing, fornicating for mush
Troglodytes
questioning the orientation of their own names
Basking at the
sky, awaiting angels to make sense of the clouds
Towers built and
empires of silt washing in and out with tides
Of decade to
decade commerce procreating in tax returns
Obliteration of
the oblation, Obfuscate the obligation inside definition of self
Dispense
inoculations on California
Russian snow
banks and Chinese rice patties, no island is sanctuary
No planet is
ordinary foolishly putting rovers on Mars as accomplishment
Ahhh! The
werewolves are turning, gorging on my jaw like a font of blasphemy
I am the lunatic,
the perverted spout of sanctimony piped to a cavern of lonely
That the pack
will never explore,
Chicken little
was eaten at ten thirteen p.m. on a Tuesday
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