nothing compares

i float across the parking lot under the concrete sky. i'm detached, i'm gonna buy shoes. silently i sing along with prince, "i went to the doctor and guess what he told me, guess what he told me? he said, 'boy you better try to have fun no matter what you do,' but he's a fool." yeah, they've all been fools. today i strut through the mall with a gold chain around my neck that reads "death poems," cuz when i'm feeling extra immaterial i drape myself in extra materials, i suck up shit like the, like the what, like the $49.94 bissell powerforce, on sale, hmm good deal. i see and am seen by the bissell, and the girl at the iphone case kiosk, and the looming crowds. i look down on it all, and my place within it. i am sullied but mostly sully (what, what do i sully, the earth, by this purchase of slave-made plastic, i hate it).

eventually i find the shoes, i make them my shoes, it is done.

i could have bought them on amazon, i could have bought the whole mall there, but the car ride, the parking lot/sky slab combo, the unchanged food court of my childhood, the nylon sheen of the sneakers, the cashier's searching eyes - they dissolve the haze. they are the wheels for the journey of the purchase, and the comic foil to the sadness of the song. "all the flowers that you planted, mama, in the backyard all died when you went away."

a man drowning
gasping emptily
wide eyed wild
sea water pouring into him
flailing flashing life,
every dumb step
a spasm in his lungs
compounding the pain
the pain of memory
the shameful parade
the pain of drowning
he wants to scream
but lacks the air
his mind screams
he sees
then,
 hark,
  mother!
a gust of light
on angel wings
descends from clouded moon
quickly arm outstretched
her hand
he knows this radiant hand
his hope is an arrow to it
her blessed fingers press
between his frenzied eyes
downward gently
into the churning sea
to quiet him
to hush the tantrum
of his life

Be leaf

"Be leaf to know belief,"
sang tree to seed on stormy reach -
One screaming wrenching
underneathing
every child she'd
never leave'd

The Aquamarine Chariot
charges to land's beginning
outpacing even
the winds’ own wheels
Its glass facade splinters in bolts -
Stampeding, unheeding
while gathering ire
unsheathing and speeding
to the island of fire -

Waves hurl herselves
awash in bells
(the tireless immortal sea
debased in her futility)
toward Land, her lord
to ward, to horde
the shining swimmers,
shells and glimmers
of sandy bottles
cracked ashore

daytime tv

transcribed on
black ribbon:
"can you help us
brunch h ? []"
smiling blonde
a plant
for the host
she looks
like she
believes
in heaven
her lips are from hell
steve harvey's face
ghastly plastic
above closed
scrambled captions
"brunc h grls club i am 25"
this blonde beacon
is pushing forty
is not blonde
pan to seated
female smiles
in bright jewel tones

who are the gods

blood flows in ditches on the road from rome
who are the gods
that call men home
to vacant deaths on slave-made stone

where are their seats at the table of the dead
the banquet prepared
the men well fed
who speaks the prayer and breaks the bread

the empty chamber can hold no more

what more beyond sour sweat and blood
must stain the teeth
of their ancient brood
must gild the mildew on their putrid food

the empty chamber is never full

oil on skin
tan chest
liquid bronze
a man, a blade
to press a
line, rotation of
figure, in vacuum
unreal light
created by
(repeat <1x to form a broken hoop)

-

The Punchline

a bhuddist walks into a bar.
life is suffering.

-

great loss of life v. small gain of death:
a weak slight of hand then nothing is left,
yet absence remains without sign of theft.