A soggy beach ball wedged between cotton sheets
spreads noiseless destruction when left unattended.
It’s hiding from a magnified truth, something once folded
that now imposes a grapevine of extra-strength aspirin.
Semi-deflated and drumming with concern, slippery when wet;
always cornered, cowering from preconceived needles.
Make up situations and watch them fester in corners where little Billy dumped his dead frog last summer and Jill took that old spoiled yogurt and threw it in disgust and it splattered on her face and got in her eye and she began to cry–not because she had stinging culture in her cornea, but because her dad left the house that night and didn’t come back. It wasn’t his fault, the F-150 behind him was going 50 in a 35 and turned around to look at the girl with her chest touching her neck just long enough to fly out the windshield as he connected with the trunk of a midsize sedan which in turn lost its bearing and hit a light pole, taking out the left side in the snap of a finger.
Temporary insanity paves the way for innovative dramatizing, and the function of all those waves colliding seems to be inextricably linked to the number of molecules contained within one jar of honey. A single jar is all it takes to begin a revolution, though often times it’s shattered and gouged in a counterproductive manner. Why we must take two steps backward after a step forward still eludes me, though I suppose we like to hunt those impossible answers and pretend that the horizon holds them all, a wall of color that dissipates and leaks inspiration when you get nearer (but holds answers like a sieve holds water), lifeblood for the essence of creativity; infinite and intangible yet tantalizingly exhilarating.
Tethered pistons yelling grief and gilded tattered fungus chips
elementary linkage, smartly aligned and chopped through the useless night.
These are the loftier goals of our people, healthy and vigorous ones,
the tumbling hasn’t left our eyelids, if we’re lucky we’ll catch a cold.
Outwards and progressing, starboard forward and sandpipers running
softer climes, where skinny legs won’t be lapped with briny foam.
Timid clicks, the endless game without objective never loses its thrill
loveliest, simplest, most fragile spirits, visiting us just for the sunset.
This is among my very favorites. I used a Uniball Jetstream pen, as perfect a writing utensil as I’ve ever encountered.