eleven fingers

toenail, toothache
tumbler, tomfoolery
technicalities, tournaments
and tragedy

seven words
summoned at random
writing for no reason in particular
the pens are always empty
and without power
this machine(man)is useless

somewhere along the line
the magic
that mapped the mind
and there are no
miracle cures
as lost silhouettes
plan one final hustle

sometimes i wonder
what a blue rhapsody feels like?
is it soft and full
or short and jagged?

broken down and ready for
a drastic wager
it’s time
to stop
wasting time
and i know
i should quit smoking,
quit drinking,
get in shape,
and prepare
for the inevitable war

swept up by illusions
of sanitary sanity
in a shared virtual space
and contemplating the end of the world
at odd hours
i’m redirected by the 6th glitch
and reminded of the moon
so clear and unforgiving

what is the meaning of
all this catatonic nonsense?
in our collective
social dream
we are covered with curious complements
but rarely rewarded with dignity
and culture always captures
stubborn and naive perceptions
yet sometimes i feel
the gods are training us
for something more
than this pointless cycle
of smooth bounties
and endless consumption

i had a dream last night
and in it, familiar friends
i’ve never actually met
were seeking to return
and we were all waiting
for summer signs
of rebellion and creativity

interrupted by heavy belief
i watch a calypso cannibal
lying quietly to the side of the road
while majestic bums
utter homeless sorcery
with an elastic cough
in hopes of discovering the secret
of quiet immortality

so drink the wine
and fire the guns
cause good times and bad
continue to live
in arrested memories

this thing called art
constantly dies
only to be reborn
and i wonder
why is the thunder
always so misunderstood?


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