There is something wrong with our kind and wrong with our beer tin smiles’ wide wing-spreading grins hollowed out.
Screams show crooked urine teeth the way to hallowed prayers of A and Men
that drift smoke-wise to the ears supposed to be there
so we don’t have to fool ourselves that ours is not one short march to the ground;
that there will be a hand, a stair, a ship for space or ether or Mother Hubbard from
this flubber muckler of a world on which we round.
Something wrong to be certain in our postage due voicemail echoes.
Delete the saved when the digitized memory no longer rings with sentiment.
He stood shaking a rack of papers like a pulpit preacher petting sounds
telling of this and that and how it looked through his eyes,
he shouted, “I am UnDelete; virtual eraser of the erased; rise
Lazarus we’ave miles to go before we sleep.” He laughed
and I couldn’t tell him not to make the snake charmer
angry. He spit venom into the fivo clock sunrise. Watched out
from shadows on either side of noon stamping
footprints across the sea
and when at last he felt to rest
his eyes in defiance refused to close/refused to close/refused to close.
Must be something wrong with this need to be a’sleep
waking in the morning whatever, drifting upon the gloam;
rules of when to run and where fore what tells us why.
Come again? Lord Xavior, my heresy is an agitation
like your fingers in my wine.
I leave our “we” in the spine of your solemn volume sinking in the wax puddle
over which the wick tries vainly to light out.
The meaning flickers and winces when the key turns in
the lock becauses because
You and I can never tell if
the lock is locking or is not
“Say What You Want, No One is Listening”
originally appeared in Seveneightfive Vol. IV Issue III October 15, 2009