Poetry

when I came into my life
and became my significant other
I became a grave by-product
I love the way he tells me there
has got to be a system
to build a car out of data
choices will be modular options
with a whim of individualism
the great divide echos with
very little variation
in sarcasm
which takes enourmous amounts
of delusion
normalization
floundering mindscapes in an ocean
of insane insecurity
constant dissonance resonantes
hammering chords into random bonds
adapted to what is malleable
within a monoculture
I have no relative resources
to spare
I like reason I understand resistence
as well
there have been far too many linguistic
massacres
whole languages disappear without notice
*
before you leave I want to ask you
how you got here
priority mail?
that microcosm of a macroworld
of competition
that no way is anything other
than murderous which makes me
garnish my neighbor’s ruthless
barbeque
I make good money nominally
a narcissist can make a movie
out of it
that goes viral
in the impossible
*
your loneliness accuses me
of being someone I hate
who shamelessly steals my shoes
those identical twins day and night
but I am accountable
and talk then talk over
talk with more talk
which is absurd which I have already
heard
because it is part of all the talk
your loneliness I have heard is not
my business
but I have no business
but silence
which accuses me
*
your absence empties the task
at hand of significance
who needs you when I play hide and seek
with myself?
is that what you mean?
*
you are up now well after I woke
restlessly
in a seperate room I hear the bass notes
of wood against wood
and maybe something made of metal and glass
and I wonder if I should go for walk
to be gone for you
*
it is a fine late autumn afternoon
of cold sunshine in
March
fall spring
they miss each other
so much
they resemble each other
they just can’t let go
*
listen
just for another hour
like background noise
distant traffic
to a raven in fir tree
next to a cemetery
or cicadas after a hard rain
with 90 percent humidity
or wall paper from another century
the white noise in the dry yellow grass
listen to how tall it gets
tomorrow
*
the curtains are closed
holding back the light
when it wants in
the clocks haven’t quite digested
last night’s leftovers
or a forthnight’s overdraws
I suppose
*
when you are really happy I know I had no
real part in it
so I have nothing to fear
*