A Love Affair With Genies

Lazy people; the unimaginative, look for genies,
wanting to bask in the glory of some unearned
destiny; because they believe in deservedness

Genies, are like fat promises, others should do
do for you; allowing you to collect rewards with-
out the remorse of getting your hands dirty

Genies, take more than they give while wearing
pointed toe slippers and garish turbans, hollow
laughing at your approval, gullibility & consent

You, undeterred, want to meet more genies;
one to make you beautiful, two to make you
rich, three to grant you an infinity of wishes

You May Always Wish For Better

(I)

The floor changes daily, its geometry is never
even, never stable, never safe enough for gravity
to assert itself like Newton might argue it should

Rumbles are the soundscape clapped like thunder
by unseen hands always at the busy to disrupt what
wishes to remain quiet far from the bell men

It is not a passing fancy to notice heat rising. It is not
a faithless fear that keeps those who know away from
the shore, that edge is no place to peer into the future

(II)

It may seem like you do not have enough, but your
neighbors surround your successes like sick puppy
vagabonds lusting to consume your every morsel

City and town are much alike, kindled towards greed
and annihilating abandonment once the good times
quit like old toys and mechanical remedies often do

There is no forever, change is reliable though, a train
will eventually arrive at some station and perhaps by
chance you will find yourself able to hear its whistle

Well?

Wealth without tenderness or calming mercy;
trains without backbones of conscionable
destinations; terrains without verigation,
powdered skies or romantic notions; momentum
without a forward plan or direction; music
without cadence, lilt or sound; love without
the embracing of duality; houses without a
home sweet home orientation; trade without
consensual and permission granted agreements

A mother and a daughter bruised by the
antecedents of a father’s rage, live in a mansion
across the street from a pedigreed polo field;
unknown about, invisible really, and are as
forgettable as the death of one of them in the
backyard pool, glared at by a sky crossing sun

Bounce without vibrance or enthusiasm; smoke
without forest fires signalling aggressive
intentions; hope without blind justice
prejudice; symmetry without saddle sore
mimericky, paintings without the profanity of
bigotry; prayers without soul crushing beggery;
cliffs without compliant and loyal lemmings;
hunger without edible or locatable food; crime
without culpability, and white men without the
comfort of their guns

In my past life

There was an equator, an inside and an outside.
Deflections and distortions littered reality with 
misunderstood encyclopedic meanings. Lizards
tattooed floors, and distant wails faked solitaire
as their attempt at conversation.

On Sunday, lottery prayers sailed upwards, brows
sweated defeat down and over furrows of one thing
and not enough of another; no one was sober, nor
was there a reputable authority to lob a question
to and check on the veracity of the word, Jesus.

Cyclically it all seemed like the same day but
really, a great many days had been torn from the
calendar, like pages subtracted from diarys; the
prayers could have been about something, but
smoldered like something much less than less.

Then like a wind an all together unexplainable
spinning shifts the scene, and flowers begin moving
through concrete; but nonetheless, movement is
movement and a welcome relief to those with the
termity to endure the wanting.

If you listened more…

Child laughs, distant voice cascades, the past; an echo that might have happened. Big men, little babies, indistinguishably dreaming; one a father the other a child, in the blurry orchard shadows making up songs of remembrance.

A mother with longings beyond childbirth paces, then drops to the floor writhing and incoherently garbling songs about industry and stair climbing with almost no historical precedent, far from the story, away from the myth, into a different doorway.

You, nothing more that you, wanting to be anyone on their way to a somewhere better place up a steep hill out of harms way like an assured monarch in no real need of nursery rhymes or bible hymns, or the praising of one thing over another.

All places are dioramas of past occurrences without the content of fact, concurrence, or actual histories; not even the fly’s on the wall are accurate or truthful witnesses to what imbues our magical thank god we still breath metaphors, though they will try their best, too.

A Short Stream of Unconsciousness

Meaningless words about glorious things spray like aerosol from tin cans of man mouths repeating like mantras everlasting but simple origin and destination explanations until everything is sticky and wet with spiritual or science glue, but still too late, about face, and as ever, confused.

Mighty particulants of gray matter mosaic tile spatter a hopscotch of lurid facts, despotic wisdom rages and no light ignorance, making intellectuals double think through the hazards of retreating to any previous saintly safe place near cliffs, monoliths, or distant seashores.

(A fixed concept becomes either more or less believable depending on whether or not a mass of people become willing to simultaneously relax their belief muscles with enough time to course correct against their impending sense of better than thou righteous panic.)

…surely, madness…

Between Words, Listen…

Sawn to Pieces!

What the big box stores have not yet accomplished, the destruction of local small businesses…becomes more and more possible with Covid-19

Who Decides?