the clowns have failed us

so tired
listening for the first breath
of the north star
under the shaky embrace of
a twilight hangover
i hover over
another reptile morning
as the sky traces
blue angels
upon it’s dirty surface
and a gentle fog masks the sun

it’s the end of september
and i’m sitting on my front porch
almost comfortable
in my underwear
waiting for birds
that have already flown south
and i know
these square roads
are written with
karma’s decree
spelling tragedy

stubborn exit
as assumptions kill
half formed dreams
we seek to forget failures
and fatal loves
in favor of fabricated ghosts

waiting on love
waiting on life
waiting on
nothing is going to work
and i can feel them
closing in
so, with spent passion
i write half words
almost memorized
spilled on stained pages
in the darkness

the revolution is
as ritual television
rules the rabble
cats sleep with dogs
and the whore is made queen
so, send the lions to the lambs
prepare for a party
of unforeseen measure
and give me one last cup of
black coffee
to save the day

faces fade
into something new
an uncertain brew
and this living glue
is separating at the seams
as nights once filled with
flashes of sideways smiles
are all gone now
everything dies in the center
only to be reborn on
some stranger’s horizon

wrapped in nature’s random symphony
this madness is softer now
no action
no excitement
no new poems
mystic music,
serpentine wine, and
random words
vulgar in their
spiraling descent




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